


Tied

by anacrusisnt



Series: She's the Prettiest Girl at the Party, and She Can Prove It with a Solid Right Hook [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Canon Divergence, Denial of Feelings, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, POV Cullen Rutherford, PTSD stuff, Slow Burn, Varric will go down with this ship, big sis cassandra, fade shit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-15
Updated: 2018-09-01
Packaged: 2019-03-05 00:09:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 43,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13375968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anacrusisnt/pseuds/anacrusisnt
Summary: Cullen falls head over heels for a fierce, charming elf woman he meets in a tavern. That woman turns out to be the Herald of Andraste. He should probably just forget about her, but she doesn't make it easy.Goes through the events of Dragon Age: Inquisition and beyond, and the relationship that blooms between Cullen Rutherford and Inquisitor Ylassa Lavellan.





	1. A Chance Meeting

**Author's Note:**

> The first time that Cullen had met the fabled Herald of Andraste, he didn’t even know it was her.

After a difficult day of training brand-new Inquisition troops who wouldn’t know a sword from a hole in the ground, Cullen found himself at the Singing Maiden, hoping that a few drinks would help him wind down. Unfortunately, it seemed that the Singing Maiden was filled to the brim, which did little to alleviate what was beginning to become, to him, a permanent state of anxiety. The packed tavern made sense, he supposed. Haven was at capacity when it came to people at the moment, and where else was there to go but the tavern? Still, it set him on edge. He never liked crowds.

He bobbed his way through the throngs of people as he made his way to the bar. He was dressed casually, but a group of soldiers at a nearby table still recognized him and nervously saluted. He dismissed their gestures with a curt nod.

Cullen ordered an ale at the bar and leaned against it as he surveyed the tavern for a less-crowded place for him to drink in peace. No such luck—every table was packed, as was every corner, and people were leaning against the walls or sitting on the floor. “Maker,” he muttered to himself.

“Excuse me, miss? Are you her?”

A man and his wife, both of them obviously inebriated, were standing and talking to the elf woman sitting next to Cullen at the bar. The elf turned to look at them, putting her back to Cullen. “I’m sorry?” she asked, obviously irritated.

“Look, darling,” slurred the woman. “It _is_ her. Did Andraste really pluck you out of the Fade?”

 _Maker, was this the Herald?_ He internally chided himself for eavesdropping, but that didn’t stop him from continuing to do so.

The elf rubbed at the bridge of her nose. “Oh Creators _,_ ” she sighed. “No, I’m not the Herald of Andraste. Not every elf is the _Herald of fucking Andraste._ You know you’re like the fifth people to ask me this today?” While her Trade tongue was flawless, her voice had a heavy accent that Cullen couldn’t quite place.

The man snorted and pointed at her face, “But you’ve got all that gunk on your face.”

The elf threw up her hands in exasperation, “I’m _Dalish_. We all have ‘that gunk’ on our faces! I’m not the Herald, leave me the fuck alone.” She grabbed her mug of ale off the counter and took a long gulp from it.

The woman crossed her arms, as if trying to make a statement that she and her companion wouldn’t leave until they got what they wanted. “Come on, you’ve got to be her! Not a lot of Dalish elves running around Haven.”

“There’s got to be at least two,” the elf retorted. “Because I’m not her.”

“We don’t believe you!” The man slurred.

“What does she look like?” The elf asked. “The Herald.”

The man paused. “She’s… an elf.”

“Mhmm?” The elf nodded for him to continue. Cullen couldn’t see her face, but an eyebrow raise was almost audible in her voice.

“She’s got the face tattoos!” The woman interjected.

“And…? Hair color, eye color, height, weight?” The couple was uncomfortably silent. The elf scoffed, “So, because I have knife-ears and a tree on my face, you two decide to bother me. Then, you continue to bother me because you _don’t believe me_ when I say I’m not the Herald, even though you have no idea what the Herald actually looks like. Please tell me I’m not the only one who sees how fucking insane this is?”

There was another pause. Then, as if the elf’s tirade had gone in one ear and out the other, the man commanded, “Show us your mark on your hand.”

“No.” She said firmly.

“Come on now,” begged the woman. She reached for one of the elf’s hands.

“Quit being a cunt and show it to us,” the man barked.

“Okay, you know what?” The elf hopped off her chair. She was a tiny thing, even for an elf, barely coming to the man’s chest, but Cullen still worried that she was going to throw a punch.

As she drew a fist back, Cullen intervened, grabbing her elbow. She retaliated by spinning around to glare at him, which he ignored. He regarded the drunken couple with a glare of his own, “Leave. Now.”

It seemed to have worked, because the woman grabbed her husband’s arm, and Cullen watched them stagger out of the bar. As the door closed behind them, he looked back at the elf, who was still glaring at him. She had piercing dark eyes and a tattoo on her face—a dark green tree, its roots beginning at the bridge of her nose and branching up her forehead and over her eyebrows, looping back around to her cheekbones.

She jerked her arm out of his grip. “I could have handled that,” she grumbled and sat back down in her chair.

“I don’t doubt that--” _and he really didn’t_ , “--but, and this is just me personally, I’m not fond of tavern brawls occurring _directly_ next to where I’m standing.”

She smiled—actually, _smirked_ would have been more apropos, as one corner of her mouth lifted much higher than the other. “Yeah, that man was so drunk that he probably would have hit you instead of me.” She gestured towards his face and waved her gloved hand in a circle, “Wouldn’t want to mess all that up.”

The barmaid— _Her name was Flissa, maybe?_ Cullen couldn’t remember, much to his embarrassment—finally brought him his mug of ale. “Sorry about that wait. It’s really crazy today.” She gestured to the packed tavern. “Five coins, please.”

As Cullen reached for his coin pouch at his belt, the elf placed her hand on his forearm. “Don’t worry about it.” She reached into the inner pocket of her coat and pulled out a pouch of ring velvet, picked five coins out of it, and handed them to the barmaid. “Here you go, Flissa.”

Flissa pocketed the coins. “Let me know if you two need anything.” She darted off to tend to another tavern patron somewhere.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

The elf huffed, “Well, you didn’t have to intervene either. Now we’re even, I guess.”

He grabbed his mug of ale and surveyed the tavern for an open seat. “Maker, there really aren’t any seats,” he muttered to himself while taking a good swig of ale.

“You can have mine. Almost starting a tavern brawl is probably my cue to leave.” She moved to get out of her chair, but Cullen dismissed it with a gesture.

“The night’s still young. You might successfully start a brawl yet.”

She gave a chuckle, and she almost seemed surprised by it. “I’m going to hold you to that. If I don’t get a brawl I’m just going to fight you.”

“Fine,” he humored good-naturedly. “Just, uh…” he drew a circle around his face with his finger, mimicking her gesture from earlier. “Avoid this.”

She tilted her head back in a genuine laugh. Then, she made a face as if she was considering something for a moment before sticking her gloved hand out. “I’m Ylassa.”

He took it and shook it warmly, “Cullen.”

“ _Cullen._ Well, thank you for the assistance back there. I didn’t think they’d ever leave me alone.”

Cullen took another sip of his ale, “Have people really been mistaking you for the Herald?”

“ _Constantly._ I can’t even walk around Haven anymore. I don’t know if we have the same hair color or something…” She absentmindedly pushed some hair out of her face as she mentioned it. It was a dark brown that reflected the warm firelight in hues of auburn, and tied up into a bun with tight braids that began on either side of her head.

“Regardless, it’s awful that they’re bothering you.”

Ylassa shrugged, “Those people were just drunk. Most people have sort of just left me alone after I tell them that I’m not the Herald. I’ve found most people don’t really know what the Herald looks like well enough to argue.”

“I don’t know what the Herald looks like either, so I couldn’t really tell you.” He actually had a meeting with the Herald tomorrow morning, along with Cassandra and the other advisors, but he didn’t want to seem like he was bragging to a stranger.

“Well, if the Herald ever needs a stand-in, I suppose I should offer the Inquisition my services.”

“Not if you keep trying to start tavern brawls,” he teased.

She rolled her eyes, but that lopsided smirk returned to her face. “You’re never going to let me live this down, are you?”

“Not a damn chance.”

Cullen noticed that the patron in the chair on the other side of Ylassa was getting up to leave. She also noticed the movement in her periphery and moved before Cullen had a chance to even process it, swinging her legs over the back of her chair and landing the heels of her boots on the seat to claim it. She gestured to it triumphantly.

“You’ve got good reflexes,” he noted.

She grinned.

Cullen moved around to the open chair and waited for her to drop her feet so he could sit. He sighed with relief as he sat down, not realizing that his feet were aching until he had gotten off of them, “Much better.” Ylassa grabbed the mug of ale he had accidentally left and slid it across the bar to him. He gulped it down quickly before slamming it back on the bar.

She chuckled, “Long day?”

“Long day,” he echoed.

"Guess you’re stuck with me for the evening.” She gestured to the packed tavern, signaling that there really wasn’t anywhere else in the tavern he could move to. Cullen smiled.

He was perfectly fine right where he was.

 

The night progressed with this stranger, and Cullen found himself almost enraptured by her. She was a vivid storyteller, often getting swept away in the excitement of it until she was gesturing wildly with her hands and arms, sometimes adding sound effects or voices. His tongue loosened by alcohol, he asked her questions about her clan. They were probably questions she fielded a hundred times a day from people who rarely, if ever, met Dalish elves. But she answered them kindly, as if he were a young student.

“So, you get that thing—” He asked, pointing to the intricate tattoo of a tree on her forehead.

“The _vallaslin_ —” She corrected patiently.

“The _vallaslin,”_ he repeated, stumbling over the word. “You get them as a way of honoring your gods?”

“Yes. And you can’t talk or wince or anything while getting it. It’s supposed to be a sign of maturity,” she winced downward into her ale, as if she was recalling receiving hers.

“Which god is that one? On your face?”

“Mythal, The All-Mother, Deliverer of Justice.”

“She… delivers justice?”

“Sure. If you feel you’ve been slighted, you pray for Mythal to exact her righteous fury on the wrongdoer.”

“Huh.” He drained another ale and, emboldened, reached across and flitted his thumb across the y-shaped scar in the middle of her cheek a few times. “And how’d you get this?”

“An accident.” She pursed her lips.

“Well, most people don’t get scars on purpose.” He tapped the scar on his upper lip.

“See, you probably have a cool story behind your scar. You’re all gallant and shit—” Cullen flushed at being called _‘gallant’_ , even with the addition of _‘and shit’_. “—you probably got yours fighting a dragon or something. Mine is just… _embarrassing._ ”

“Oh, embarrassing?” He smirked. “You have to tell me.”

“No.” She replied coolly. All throughout the evening, she had spoken with a confidence in her own skin that Cullen never thought he could possess in his.

“I will buy the next round if you tell me this story.”

“My dignity is not worth a five-coin ale, _Ser Cullen_.”

He scoffed, “I will get Flissa to break out the good stuff.” It sounded like a threat, but a teasing one. “She’s probably got brandy or something.”

The thought of brandy seemed to intrigue her. “Fine.”

Cullen waved down Flissa, and ordered two brandies. As the barmaid went to get them, he turned back to face Ylassa and sat, patiently. He rested his elbow on the bar, chin in his hand. “Go on.”

Ylassa crossed her arms playfully, “I’m not saying _anything_ until I get that brandy. This story is payable upon delivery.” That wicked smirk of hers returned.

So they sat, staring each other down until the brandy came. This was a battle of wills, to them. Either the brandy would come first and she would win, or she would crack and he would win. He was fine with either option, but she seemed to take this battle seriously. One of her eyebrows rose halfway up her face as she stared him down, her lips pursed, one corner of her mouth raised higher than the other. _Maker, he thought she was lovely._

She seemed to watch him too, her face curiously scanning his as he slumped further and further into his hand propped up on the bar.

He was beginning to get drunk, and he had just ordered brandy. _Maker help him_.

She broke the silence first, but not to tell the story of her scar, “Why are you so interested in me, anyway?”

“Have you met yourself recently? You’re a Dalish elf away from her clan, starting bar fights and constantly getting confused for the Herald of Andraste. That’s pretty interesting any way you look at it.”

A slight grin crept onto her face, “I guess.” Ylassa picked up her empty mug of ale and stared into it, as if she could will more ale to appear.

Instead, the brandy appeared. He handed Flissa thirty coins— _he was hemorrhaging money this evening, Andraste preserve him_ —and slid the brandy across the bar to Ylassa, who deftly caught it. She seemed to be holding her liquor better than him at present.

“Alright, Cullen. I’m a woman of my word.” She took a sip of the brandy, savoring it. “Huh. You know, I’ve never had brandy before. It’s not half bad.” She took another sip. “What is brandy, exactly? Like… wine, right? But also _not wine_?”

“Quit stalling.” Cullen tried to seem serious, but he couldn’t suppress a grin.

"Okay, okay.” Preparing herself for the tale, she leaned forward in her chair. “I fell out of a tree.”

He paused. “That’s it? I bribed you with brandy for that?” Cullen almost felt like she had hustled him. “I was promised an embarrassing tale. Children fall out of the trees they were climbing every day.”

Ylassa’s lips pursed and she shifted in her seat, “This was—” she did some quick arithmetic in her head, “—maybe two years ago?”

A chuckle bubbled through his throat before he could stop it. “You weren’t a child? You were an adult who fell out of a tree?”

“Oh, but we haven’t even begun to discuss _how_ I fell out of the tree,” she crowed.

Cullen leaned his head back into his hand, readying himself for the story.

“So, I had been up all night reading this book, even though my clan was going on a hunting trip bright and early the next morning. At sunrise, we head to an open plain on the edge of a forest. I get assigned to climb up a tree and scout, to look for old or injured animals in this pack of ram we were hunting. I find a pretty thick branch at the top of the tree and I make the mistake of sitting on it and leaning my back against the trunk. I fall asleep.

“I awake at the sound of a bird taking off on the branch above me, which scares the _fuck_ out of me. I sort of jump at the sound and before I know it, I’ve rolled off the branch. I hit _every_ branch on the way down—” she wretched her body to and fro, as if she were hitting the branches, “I was maybe twenty feet up? —and the branches cut and bruised me up all over. I broke my nose. And a rib.”

Cullen winced sympathetically.

“I had this gnarly bruise all along my left side that took like three months to heal completely.” She placed a hand on her side just beneath her left breast for emphasis. Cullen could tell she wasn’t wearing a breastband from the way her shirt and chest moved at the touch, and he suddenly imagined how she would look without the shirt. A blush creeped into his neck, so he pushed the thought out of his mind.

“—right in front of the other hunters. I couldn’t hunt for _weeks_ due to the broken rib, and I’ve been the laughingstock of the clan pretty much ever since. I mean, you get a tattoo of a tree on your face, and then you _fall out of one_ , those jokes pretty much write themselves.” She took another sip of the brandy. “Also, I got a ton of sap in my hair. That was the worst part.”

“You broke your rib, and getting sap in your hair was the worst part?” Cullen chuckled.

“Pride heals much slower than a broken rib, my friend.”

Cullen smiled at that. “Pride heals slower. I’ll have to remember that.”

“There. That’s the story.” She placed her hands in her lap. “Was it worth the cost of the brandy?”

“Absolutely.” His head still leaning into his hand, he sent her a small smile.

She mimicked his gesture, also propping her head up, and gave a small smile back.

“Do you miss them? Your clan?” He asked suddenly.

Ylassa gave a noncommittal shrug, “Sure. I’m sure wherever your family is, you miss them too.”

“Honnleath,” he replied. “Near Kirkwall. I miss them very much. But still, don’t the Dalish have rules about leaving the clan?”

“I lucked out,” she grinned. “I always wanted to explore. The clan had some business in Redcliffe, so I volunteered to do it. In an ideal world, I’d go to Orlais, maybe Nevarra, but Ferelden is good. I can’t go to Orlais or Nevarra right now anyway. Not when the whole world’s gone to shit.”

“Maybe you’ll get to go someday. You know, once there isn’t a hole in the sky.”

She chuckled, but it lacked mirth, “I’m not going to hold my breath on that one. It might be a while.”

“Are you going to go back to your clan?”

The corners of Ylassa’s mouth turned down, “I’m not sure. How could I possibly go back right now? The Dalish can go on and on about wanting isolation as much as they want, but we still live in Thedas, same as the rest of you. Turning our backs on something that could pose a threat to the whole world isn’t right.”

“It’s noble of you to want to stay.”

She smirked, “I am the furthest thing from _noble_ , but thank you.”

A loud commotion came from the far side of the tavern—a brawl had broken out at one of the corner tables between two men.

Ylassa sipped at her brandy, “This should be good.”

“I should probably break up this one too.” He stood up from his chair.

“You’re no fun,” she teased.

“Not being fun is sort of my job description.” At that moment, the two men had fallen over on top of the table, and it collapsed under their weight. The man on top still wailed punches on the other. _Damn it._

Cullen crossed the tavern in a few strides and grabbed the man throwing the punches, pulling him up by his shoulders. The man, perhaps surprised, sent an elbow square into Cullen’s nose. His vision went white for a few seconds.

As his vision returned, the entire tavern had frozen still, waiting for the Commander’s reaction to an elbow in the face. A few men that Cullen recognized as Inquisition soldiers half-stood at their table, waiting to see how this would play out, and if they were needed to assist. At the current moment, all Cullen was doing was clutching the lower half of his face and shooting daggers with his eyes at the man who threw the elbow.

Both men decided to flee, the man still on the ground stumbling as he got to his feet. They both barreled out of the tavern. One of the men—Cullen wasn’t sure if it was the one who threw the elbow or not—collided with Ylassa as he neared the bar. She had apparently gotten up to check on Cullen, which put her directly into the brawler’s escape routes. They both fell down, with the glass of brandy Ylassa was holding shattering upon impact with the wooden floor.

The two of them rolled around for a second before Ylassa wrestled her way on top of him, wailing a few good punches into the man’s face. “That was _brandy—”_ she accentuated with a punch, “—you _fucking asshole._ ”

The man hit Ylassa with an uppercut, and she reeled backward. He took this opportunity to shimmy his way from under her and bound for the door, his companion having already escaped.

Flissa rounded the bar as the men escaped, “Hey, wait! You need to pay for that table—” The door slammed behind him, leaving the tavern eerily quiet.

Cullen ran over to Ylassa in a blink, “Maker, Ylassa, are you all right?”

She rubbed at her jaw. “I’m fine.”

“What were you _thinking?_ ” He stuck his hand out and helped her up. “Are you sure you’re not hurt?”

“You did promise me a tavern brawl, after all.” They both chuckled. Then, she looked at his face, alarmed, and cupped his chin in her hand, “Creators, Cullen, your nose is bleeding.”

Cullen put his fingers to his upper lip, and saw blood dotting the tips of his fingers. “Oh _shit._ ” He didn’t often swear, but his nose hurt something fierce and his night had taken a drastic turn.

Flissa procured a clean rag from behind the bar and handed it to Ylassa. “Here. Thank you for trying. Both of you.” She stared, defeated, at the broken table and shattered glass.

“Flissa,” Ylassa began. “Let me pay for this.”

“No, no,” Flissa raised both of her palms in a ‘stop’ motion. “You shouldn’t have to pay for those idiots.”

“Flissa, _please._ ” She procured a coin pouch of shiny silk brocade and pressed it into Flissa’s hands. “You’ve worked so hard to make this such a wonderful place for us. I insist.”

Flissa nodded reluctantly, but there was a look of relief on her face. “Thank you, again.”

“Of course.” She smiled warmly and turned to Cullen, who had been watching. “Wow, that nose is really bleeding, huh? Come with me, I know just what to do.” She waved goodbye to Flissa and turned towards the door.

He followed her out of the Singing Maiden and towards the side steps, gesturing for him to sit on the far side of the first step. He stared at her, “You sure you’re all right? You took an uppercut.”

She shrugged nonchalantly, “I’m fine. I’m scrappy and know how to take a punch. You, on the other hand, are bleeding like a ram at a slaughter.”

“Like a _what?_ ”

She snorted, “Yeah, it sounds a lot less ominous in Elvhen. Sit.”

Cullen obliged and tilted his head back to keep the blood from flowing down.

“Don’t tilt your head back,” she corrected gently, cupping his chin in her hand and pulling it down so he was leaning slightly forward. “Pinch your nose like this—” she put two fingers just above his nostrils and pinched them together to instruct how he should do it. She handed him the clean rag that Flissa had handed her as they exited the tavern. “Hold that under, in case some blood makes its way out of your nose. Also, some blood might seep down the back of your throat. If that happens, try to spit it out, not swallow it.”

Cullen pinched his nose as she instructed and put the rag under it with his other hand. “Thanks.” His voice was slightly nasal from his pinched nose, which caused them both to chuckle.

“Hang on, let me make sure your nose isn’t broken.” She gently prodded at the sides of his nose with her fingers, causing a sharp ache in Cullen’s nose.

“Ow,” he hissed.

“Calm down, you big baby.” Ylassa said as she continued to gently prod. “Well the good news is that I don’t think it’s broken. You’re lucky, I had to have my nose set back into place after I fell out of that tree and—” she let out a low whistle. “It wasn’t fun.”

She put her hands down. “The bleeding will probably stop in a few minutes. If it aches or swells up, you can apply clean snow on it…” She made a humming sound, “Now that I think about it, the cold might slow down the blood flow from your nose.” She hoisted herself up and looked around at the top of the steps.

“You seem to know a lot about this,” Cullen called out to her, the seriousness of his inquiry undercut by how ridiculous he sounded with his nose plugged.

Ylassa chucked at his voice again, bending over to examine a snow drift nearby. She took a handful of snow and made her way back to the steps, sitting next to him and placing her gloved hand full of snow over his nose. Cullen winced at the icy cold of the snow, but it did help to numb the pain.

“To answer your question,” Ylassa began. “My _papae_ was Keeper of my clan. He was sort of a combination of mage, healer, guardian, and historian. But my _mamae_ was the one with the real knack for healing, so she took on the role of healer usually left for the Keeper.”

“Your parents were mages?” A knot formed in the pit of his stomach reflexively.

“I see that look you’re giving me,” she chided. “I’m not a mad apostate—I don’t have a lick of magic in my blood. But my mom did teach me everything I know about healing—the stuff you can do without magic, anyway. It’s a good skill to have wherever you end up.”

They sat in silence for a bit. The snow in Ylassa’s hand melted into water, which slid down his nose and was absorbed by the rag he was holding under his nostrils.

“That was brave, what you did back at the tavern,” she finally said, gently. “Very brave, but stupid.”

“I told you, it’s my job descript—hang on.” He spat some of the blood that built up in his mouth over the edge of the steps.

“So… Why did you do that?”

“Spit out the blood?” He asked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hands before pinching his nostrils and putting the rag back under it. “You told me to,” he reminded her, his voice nasal again.

“Not _that,”_ she chuckled. “You put yourself in-between two fights tonight. Well, technically, you stopped my fight before it even began. So, one-and-a-half fights. Why?”

He thought about it for a moment. “I like order,” he said simply. “I like peace.”

She thought about that for a moment, pursing her lips. “You know, the first time I had that broken nose set, it didn’t get set right. It healed crooked, and made this nasty whistling noise whenever I breathed. Couldn’t hunt for shit, because the prey could hear me from a mile off. So, my sister had to break my nose again. It hurt like you wouldn’t believe—worse than the first time, I think. But this time, she made sure to set it _right._ And now look,” she tapped at her nose. “Right as rain.”

“I… don’t really get what you’re trying to say.”

She shrugged, “That sometimes, instilling order and keeping the peace is just… delaying the inevitable.” She let Cullen stew on that for a moment, “Just something to think about, I guess. Will you let me take a look at that nose?”

Cullen removed the rag and let go of his nose. Looking down at the rag, there were a few spatters of blood, but not much. Ylassa cradled his head gently, really only touching him with the tips of her gloved fingers, and tilted his head slightly upward so she could get a better look at his nose. Her brow furrowed slightly as she examined him.

“Be honest about the damage. I can take it,” he joked, trying to make light of the silence. “Do I need to learn how to get by on something other than my rugged good looks?”

“Ha, ha,” Ylassa laughed sarcastically. “It’s a little too dark out here, but I think the bleeding has stopped. And I already said that your nose doesn’t seem to be broken, so… It’ll be fine, although it might be tender for a day or two.”

“Thank you, Ylassa.” He gave her a small smile, which she returned.

“And your ‘rugged good lucks’ are still perfectly intact, I might add.”

“Then I will consider this evening a rousing success.” He smiled a little when she chuckled.

Even though she was wearing gloves, Cullen felt a rush from the intimacy of her holding his face. Her hands on his face, her face _so close_ , was enough to send all of his blood rushing into his face. He prayed that the darkness would mask that.

A voice in his head screamed, _just kiss her already._ Another voice screamed any excuse not to, _you’re drunk, you’re the Commander, you’re off your lyrium, you might not see her again._

Despite this, Cullen went for it.

She moved her hands away from his face and he grabbed one of her wrists, using it to pull her forward and close the gap between the two of them with his lips. Ylassa gave a quick yelp of surprise before settling into the kiss, throwing both her arms around his neck and kissing him with twice the enthusiasm. His head swam with a mixture of excitement and alcohol.

She leaned forward into him and almost bowled him over, but he managed to stick an arm out behind him to keep him upright. She tasted like alcohol—he probably did as well—and he took an opening in her lips to run his tongue across her lower lip. She bit down on his lower lip in retaliation, and she chuckled when he practically _shuddered,_ every cell in his body suddenly alight. His free arm hooked around her waist.

The realization occurred to Cullen that he, the Commander of the Inquisition forces, was making out with someone on the steps of Haven. He considered breaking the kiss, but it _was_ the dead of night. Come to think of it, he hadn’t seen anyone come up or down these steps since they had sat down. It was probably as safe as it would ever be.

The arm he was propped on suddenly slipped out from under him—or maybe it just gave out. He fell backward, and her forward on top of him. The collision with the step was surprising but ultimately painless, and Ylassa managed to catch herself with her hands on either side of his head to keep their foreheads from smacking into each other.

They both giggled, their faces only half an inch from each other. “Are you all right?” He asked.

“Wonderful,” Ylassa replied, giggling again. She leaned forward and found his lips again.

They laid on the steps like that for a bit, the cool stone of the steps across his back contrasting with the warmth of Ylassa on top of him, and the sharp pressure of her fingers digging into his shoulders. Being here, with Ylassa, was a nice change of pace. He felt light, his heart thrumming with excitement as he sunk his teeth into her lower lip, swallowing the humming sound that she made.

When one of them went for air, he took the opportunity to speak. “You know…” he began, taking a loose strand of hair and tucking it behind her ear. “I have a tent not too far from here. If you wanted to… Y’know.” He sighed, his words failing him. “Privacy?” he practically squeaked. _You’re a real ladies’ man, Rutherford_ , he thought to himself.

She sat completely up and raised an eyebrow at him. Cullen propped himself on his elbows. “Unless, uh…” He cleared his throat and rubbed the back of his neck nervously. “Unless you’re not interested, which is _absolutely_ understandable—and I apologize, by the way, if that was out of line. I just think that you are fascinating, and funny, and _beautiful,_ and—” _Maker,_ he willed himself, _stop vomiting up words._

“Cullen—" He finally broke his rambling and looked back at her. A sad smile had crept onto her face, “Cullen… I _shouldn’t._ It would be a bad idea. _”_

Cullen deflated, and all the air in his lungs whooshed out of him like he’d been punched in the gut. _You’re an idiot, Rutherford._ He sat upright, “If what I said was out of line, I—"

“No, no,” she grabbed onto his hand. “Listen, you are… _Wonderful_. And _kind._ And _good_. And I—” she gave a sad chuckle, “—I don’t deserve that. I never have.”

He gave her an odd look. “How can say you don’t deserve it?”

“I almost started a tavern brawl today,” she pointed out.

“When I took an elbow to the face breaking up another brawl, you took care of my bloody nose.”

“And I also got a few punches into one of those guys.”

“You gave Flissa your coin to pay for the broken table.”

“Except I didn’t.” Ylassa reached into the inner pocket of her coat and procured a small coin pouch of ring velvet and tossed it around in her hand. “See?”

Cullen stared at it, the gears turning in his head. “You… You gave Flissa your coin pouch. I _saw_ you.”

“Oh, come on now. You’re smarter than that. The pouch I handed Flissa was silk brocade.”

“So the pouch that you handed Flissa wasn’t yours?”

He half expected her to smirk, but she didn’t, “Lifted it off the guy who he collided with me on his way out. Way I see it, he’ll notice his pouch is gone and he’ll be too embarrassed to come back to the tavern looking for it after that display. If, for some reason, he _does_ come back looking for it, he _does_ still need to pay for the damages. That money is rightfully Flissa’s any way you shake it.” She pocketed her own coin pouch.

“You know, you can get in _trouble_ for pickpocketing here.”

She glared at him, “What, are you going to tell on me?”

Cullen smiled to himself at the irony of her statement, “No. The way I see it, you did a questionable thing for an honorable reason. Which, you know, isn’t _great…_ But it’s better than doing a questionable thing for a questionable reason, I suppose.”

Ylassa tilted her head back and laughed, “Like I said—you’re too _good._ ” She leaned forward and planted a kiss on his cheek, delicate yet warm, and let her lips linger for a few seconds before backing away. “It was lovely meeting you, Cullen. And, you know, making out with you for a bit.” She shot him a smirk as she stood up and dusted the dirt and snow off of her pants.

Cullen laughed nervously, “I’ll still see you around Haven, I hope?”

“You probably will.” She made her way down the steps.

“I’ll just look for the woman who looks like the Herald of Andraste.”

He had hoped to make her laugh again, but when she turned to look at him at the bottom of the steps, she looked like she was in pain “Yeah…” She shoved her hands in her pockets and slumped off, disappearing around a corner and leaving Cullen sitting alone on the steps, wondering what exactly had just happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, this started as a writing exercise in between larger projects and before I knew it, it turned into almost 35,000 words! I figured it would be about time to publish the first chapter. 
> 
> The next few chapters are already 3/4 of the way written, but I don't anticipate having a regular update schedule (yet?). All the same, feedback is adored and appreciated. 
> 
> (The title of this work is based on "Tied" by Greta Isaac. Listen to it here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9YRNWplRLF4)


	2. Dreams and Riddles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen inadvertently helps Varric overcome his writer's block. In return, Varric gives some (unasked for) romantic advice.

After a few minutes of sitting on the steps, slightly mortified and his nose still throbbing, Cullen stood up and made his way down the steps and in the opposite direction, towards his tent. Haven was still deserted—he hadn’t seen another soul since he left the tavern, but despite the late hour, Varric was sitting by the fire near the cluster of tents where he made his home.

Varric looked up from jotting down something in his notebook as Cullen approached and shot him a lazy smile, “Good evening, Commander—or, morning, I suppose. I’m surprised to see you up this late.”

“Could say the same to you, Varric.” Cullen had never found a good time to really get to know Varric since his arrival—and he had no real intention of doing so, given the Lady Seeker’s open disdain for the dwarf. All the same, people from Kirkwall during the Blight have always had an automatic, but unspoken understanding with each other. _We have both seen horrors that others will never understand_.

“Some of my best ideas come to me in dreams,” Varric explained. “I have to jot them down immediately while they’re still fresh in my mind.”

Cullen’s brow furrowed. “A dream? I always heard that dwarves don’t dream.”

Varric grinned, “We don’t. I just hallucinate vividly when I smoke elfroot. I call them ‘dreams’ because, well, that sounds more romantic. I _am_ a writer, after all.” He shrugged it off, “Sometimes I smoke when I get writer’s block, and it gives me ideas.”

“You’re having writer’s block?” Cullen approached the campfire, rubbing his forearms to bring warmth back into them.

“Yup. I’m working on a new fantasy series. In my dream, a dragon spoke to me in riddles. _‘If a man has a bee in his hand, what’s in his eye?’_ , shit like that. I’m thinking about having the dragon guard a castle or something.”

“I wish my dreams could be that coherent,” _or whimsical,_ Cullen thought to himself, _instead of horrifying._ “What’s the answer to the riddle?”

“Oh, that one? ‘ _Beauty, because beauty is in the eye of the bee-holder’_. Easy, my brother told me that one once. Probably why I remembered it. But another one got me— _‘A barber’s job is to shave every man in town who cannot shave himself. Who shaves the barber?’_ ”

“What was the answer?”

“I mean, I can think of a few. First of all, why can’t the barber shave himself? I digress, though. I suggested that _‘he finds a barber from another town’_ , but I guess the dragon didn’t like my answer because he ate me. Then I sort of came to.”

Cullen chuckled, both at Varric’s joke and the nonchalant manner in which he delivered the ending of his dream. “Hell of a lot more creative than anything I would have come up with, that’s for sure.”

“No? I guess that’s why you’re the Commander, and I’m the writer, and not the other way ‘round.” Varric tapped the tip of quill on the page of his notebook absentmindedly. “You got anything? I don’t think the riddle my dream ended on would work.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t think my readers would like it if the chevaliers in my story got eaten in the first chapter.”

Cullen barked a laugh, “I rather liked the barber one, though. And I liked your answer.”

“The dragon didn’t, because he ate me.”

“Who cares what the dragon in your dream—or hallucination, or whatever—thought about your answer? The dragon in your dream was controlled by _you._ Maybe the only reason you got eaten was because _some_ part of you didn’t like the answer.”

“I guess. I mean, you bring a barber in from another town, sure, but who shaves _that_ barber?”

“Maybe they shave each other?” Cullen suggested.

Varric mused on that for a moment. “ _Shave each other—_ That could work, I guess. But don’t you feel like it’s too… I don’t know, simple? A riddle needs to have a trick to the answer. A play on words, a double meaning, or just a thought process that you didn’t expect. That’s the _purpose_ of a riddle, you know? Not to know the answer, but to learn new ways of seeing things once you do.”

“Until the dragon eats you,” Cullen reminded.

Varric laughed at that.

Cullen grinned with him, “Maybe one of your chevaliers calls the dragon out on that. That the dragon is perverting the whole existence of riddles, making so that they’re no longer a journey of self-discovery.”

“The dragon gets so upset, it… I don’t know, flings itself dramatically from the tower, or something.” Varric chuckled ruefully. “I like it, but it’s a bit too smart for my readers. They’re here for dashing chevaliers fighting dragons, not philosophical questions. I’ll keep working on it.” A soft, but genuine smile popped onto his face, “Hey, thanks, _Curly_.” Varric leaned into the name, pointing at the Cullen’s hair.

Cullen ran his fingers through his hair. It felt like a mess of tangles and curls. He sighed, “Well, don’t let me keep you. I was just out for a walk.” It wasn’t entirely a lie.

“A walk in a barrel of ale?” The dwarf asked, his upper lip twitching with amusement. “I could smell you approaching downwind of me.”

Cullen chuckled, “The walk _may_ have included a detour through the tavern, yes.”

“Taverns are fun. The drinks, the noise, the _people_. People are the greatest inspiration for writing, I think.”

“Yes,” Cullen mused, suddenly feeling far away. “I can certainly see how they can be.”

“Someone in particular on your mind?” When Cullen’s mind snapped back to attention, he noticed that Varric was all smiles. “ _Oh,_ I think there is.”

Cullen could feel his entire face flush as the night’s events flashed through his mind, “It’s been… an interesting night.”

“Romantic troubles?”

“I doubt that you could call it ‘romantic troubles’. I just met her. And now I… I can’t get her out of my head.”

“Love at first sight, then—"

“No, no, _no,_ Varric, _no—”_

“Hang on, let me—” Varric fumbled around for the quill that he had misplaced. “Ah, here it is! Continue.”

“You’re _writing this down_?” Cullen asked incredulously.

“Look, Curly, I’m no good at the romance stuff, but that’s what my audience wants. I take my inspiration wherever I can.” He dipped the quill into his ink. “All right, just… start. Do I know this girl? I probably know her. I know everyone in Haven.” Varric looked up expectantly at Cullen.

Cullen rubbed the back of his head, flushing even harder. “Uh… Her name’s Ylassa. Dalish.” Then, remembering the conversation that he had with Ylassa about no one taking the time to differentiate her from other Dalish elves around Haven, he continued. “Dark eyes and hair. Bit on the shorter side, even for an elf.”

Varric’s eyes darted from his notebook to Cullen, “She has a tattoo on her face, right? A tree?”

“Yes! You do know her?”

“Let’s just say that she’s… a work associate,” Varric admitted. “Sweet kid.”

“She, uh…” Cullen’s sigh was almost _wistful_. “She was loud, and opinionated, and basically drank me under the table. And she was also warm, and kind. Talking with her was like talking with an old friend that I hadn’t seen in a long time.”

Varric had abandoned his quill, instead staring at Cullen, his hands covering his mouth, almost giddy with delight. “But?”

“I don’t know. I thought things were going well, and then she just _ran off_. I don’t know if it was _‘love at first sight_ ’, or whatever you said. But… I liked her. A lot.” Cullen rubbed at his face, trying to avoid his nose, still sore from the brawl. “Maybe I’ll have a better grip on things in the morning, when I’m less _drunk_. Maybe I won’t even care at all.”

“I seriously doubt that.”

Cullen hummed in agreement.

“And you just… bumped into her?”

“More like she bumped into me,” he replied, thinking about how he stepped in and held her arm back right as she was about to throw a punch, which sent a whole chain of events in motion. “But yes, that’s the gist of it.”

Varric laughed to himself, scribbling something down in his notebook.

“You said you know her, right? Ylassa.”

“ _Oh,_ yes.”

“Any insights?”

Varric barked a laugh, almost doubling over the notebook.

“What’s so funny?”

“Good luck, Commander. That’s all I’m going to tell you.”

Cullen rose an eyebrow, “Is this the part where you tell me that women are a mystery?”

“Well, a smarter man would certainly forget about her and move on. _But…_ A smarter man wouldn’t make for a good story.”

Cullen rolled his eyes, dissatisfied with the dwarf’s cryptic answers.  “Take care Varric.” He turned to keep walking toward his tent.

“Thanks for the writing talk, Curly. I think my writer’s block is cured!”

Cullen groaned at what was apparently the dwarf’s new nickname for him. A few steps away from the campfire, he froze in his tracks, “ _A woman…_ ” he whispered.

“What?”

Cullen turned to the dwarf and grinned, “The barber, in the riddle. The barber has to shave every man in town who cannot shave himself, right? Who shaves the barber?” Cullen splayed out his hands, as if it were the simplest answer. “Nobody, because the barber’s a woman.”

Varric leaned back, slightly dumbfounded. “Andraste preserve us, kid. That’s it.” He started scribbling ferociously in his notebook.

Cullen jokingly lavished in his Varric’s praise, “I try. Goodnight, Varric.”

“Take care.”

Cullen staggered—part by drink, and part by exhaustion—to his tent, collapsing on his cot without taking off his clothes or shoes, and falling asleep almost immediately.

_That night he dreamed, not of demons and horrors, or Kinloch or Kirkwall. Cullen dreamed of his room, the one in his childhood home, before he left home for Templar training. His bed was softer than he remembered, and warm. Sunlight flitted through the window._

_A presence, lying next to him. An elf girl with dark eyes and a great, green tree on her forehead. The branches seemed to grow as he watched her._

_He ran his fingers through her hair, “Do you know any good riddles?”_

_She laughed and leaned up to kiss his forehead._

_And then he dreamt of nothing._


	3. Pride Heals Slower

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen finally meets the Herald of Andraste, and the War Meeting that follows ends up being the most awkward situation of his life. Ylassa and Cullen have a heart-to-heart talk.

“You don’t know where she is?”

Thirty minutes into the meeting, and the Herald of Andraste had not yet arrived. Cassandra was shuffling nervously from foot to foot. “I should send a guard. Make sure she hasn’t left Haven.”

“Is that a possibility you’re concerned about?” Cullen asked, rubbing at his temples. He was hungover from the night before, his nose was still tender, and having to get up early and _wait_ for someone who may have fled Haven under cover of darkness was wearing away at his resolve.

“The Herald is…” Cassandra paused, trying to find the words. “She means well. I don’t know if she _would_ leave, but it wouldn’t surprise me if she had. When I talked to her last, this whole ‘Herald’ ordeal was very overwhelming to her. I was afraid that putting guards at her door would make her seem less like a volunteer to our cause, and more like a prisoner. And _prisoners_ , well… They want to escape.”

“The Herald knows how to make herself scarce when she wants to,” Leliana added. “But I’ve received no notice from my network that she’s left Haven. To our knowledge, she’s still here.”

Cullen scowled, “You just said that she knows how to make herself scarce when she wants to.”

“Yes, but the Herald is, from my limited experience with her, honorable enough to let us know if she wanted to leave.”

“We always made sure she knew that her participation was voluntary,” Cassandra finished.

“Participation that this organization could not function without,” he pointed out.

A small smile tugged at Cassandra’s lips, “I have faith in her.”

As if on cue, the door to the War Room swung open. “Sorry, sorry!” A familiar voice called. “I don’t know how late I am, but I’m sorr— _oh shit._ ”

Cullen couldn’t tell how much time passed—it could have been a fraction of a second, or several—after he made eye contact with the figure who strode through the door.

_Maker, he could certainly understand why people kept mistaking Ylassa for the Herald._ Their features were strikingly similar, with the same dark hair and eyes. Even the Herald’s facial tattoo— _vallaslin,_ he remembered Ylassa teaching him—was a tree, and a similar color, too.

_Wait, was…? No. There was no way._

_No, no, nonononononono._

The Herald gave him a small smile as he continued to stare at her and rack his hungover brain. One corner of her mouth lifted much, much higher than the other.

_Oh, Andraste’s tits._

“Er…” Cassandra began, having had enough of however long that awkward silence had gone on for. “May I introduce Ylassa Lavellan,” she addressed to the room. “She helped us stop the Breach from spreading. Since, so far, she is the only one with any ability to close these rifts, and hopefully soon the Breach itself, I figured it would be prudent for her to attend these meetings.”

The Herald— _Ylassa? Fuck.—_ shuffled nervously and waved her hand. “Hi…” Her voice betrayed her nervousness as she stared down at the table. “This is a nice… er, table.”

Gone was the confident and sarcastic woman who told stories that Cullen had met at the tavern the night before. Instead, she had been replaced by someone who looked just like her, but was very, _very_ uncomfortable being here. Was it because she felt overwhelmed, like Cassandra had mentioned earlier? Or the fact that he had caught her in her lie?

“—Commander Cullen Rutherford here is in charge of our forces.”

Cullen snapped out of his thoughts and focused his attention on Cassandra, “Hmm? Sorry.”

“I was just introducing you to The Herald,” Cassandra gently reminded.

“Right. We’ve actually—”

Ylassa leaned over the table to offer her hand to him, almost falling onto it in the process, “Commander Cullen, was it? Nice to meet you.”

_Ouch. That stung._ He took her hand and shook it, “Pleasure to meet you.”

He shook her hand for an obnoxiously long time, or at least it felt like it to him. As if to cement to the three other women in this room, _“Why, yes, this is certainly the first time I’ve met the fabled Herald of Andraste! I didn’t deescalate a tavern brawl she was trying to start, and I certainly didn’t get drunk with her, or kiss her, or invite her to my tent last night!”_

He broke the handshake, and he suddenly had no idea what else to do with his hands. He settled for putting both behind him. Ylassa crossed her arms, holding them at the elbows. He could see Cassandra looking at the two of them, confused, before moving on, “This is Josephine Montilyet, our ambassador and chief diplomat…”

As Cassandra’s voice droned out, Cullen’s eyes drifted back to Ylassa, who was focused on talking to Josephine. Her eyes flitted back to his, just for a moment, and her eyebrows bunched together, before she returned her gaze to Josephine.

Ylassa had lied to him, that much was certain. It stung him a bit more than he was expecting it to. The entire lower half of his gut burned with something like indignation. _Had she known he was the Commander? Would she use their behavior last night against him in some way?_ While Ylassa didn’t strike him as the blackmailing sort, he realized he apparently knew nothing about her.

Nothing at all.

 

_Cullen Stanton Rutherford, you are a colossal idiot._

This was his internal mantra throughout the meeting, after the pleasantries had ended and they had begun to discuss operations. Ylassa stood across the table from him, not looking at him once since the operations part of the meeting had begun.

_Of course, she would end up being the Herald of Andraste. You meet a nice girl in a tavern, everything’s great, it’s the first time you’ve felt anything for anyone since Kirkwall, and she ends up being the Herald of Andraste the whole time._ It must have been some sort of sick cosmic joke, or a punishment sent down to him from the Maker himself for… something. He’d recite the Chant a few times tonight, just in case.

“—A Chantry Mother by the name of Mother Giselle has asked to speak with you personally, Herald.”

One of Ylassa’s ears twitched, the mentioning of her name drawing her out of her own reverie, “Hmm? Why me?” She dismissed whatever comment Cassandra had at the ready. “Doesn’t matter. So, I actually get to _go?_ To this—” She pointed at the spot on her map, “Hinterlands?” Her brow furrowed as she sounded out the name in her heavy accent.

“Well, yes.” Cassandra replied.

Excitement bounded through Ylassa, causing her to bounce on the tips of her toes, “How soon can we get going?”

“Tomorrow, probably.”

A grin crept onto Ylassa’s face, and Cullen felt like he had been punched in the gut. “Okay,” she breathed. “Excellent. Tell me everything.”

_She’s awfully excited to leave. Probably to get away from you, Cullen Stanton Rutherford, you colossal idiot._

The meeting ended. He had been given a few tasks to do—everyone had—and Ylassa, Cassandra, and the rest of their party would leave in the morning to meet with this Mother Giselle. Josephine and Leliana filed out of the room immediately, while Ylassa stood in a corner and talked to Cassandra about something. Cullen busied himself, picking up and straightening papers that really didn’t need picking up or straightening, hoping for a break in their conversation so he could draw Ylassa away. When he ran out of papers to pick up or straighten, he pretended to read them.

_Ylassa lied._ This realization, as the meeting went on, went from a sting to a burning weight at the pit of his stomach. She acted like she didn’t know him. She barely looked at him the whole meeting. _Was she embarrassed? Did she hate him? Would this affect her participation with the Inquisition?_ Cassandra had already casually mentioned that she thought that Ylassa was a flight risk.

He had to talk to Ylassa, but he didn’t want to interrupt whatever conversation she was having with Cassandra, especially since they were leaving for the Hinterlands in the morning. The Inquisition came first.

Another minute or so went by, and Cullen resorted to send pleading thoughts to Cassandra using only his mind to just _please wrap up your Maker-forsaken conversation, please._

Cassandra finally signaled the end of the conversation, although Cullen wasn’t sure if she had actually received his psychic thoughts. “I will inform the others, and we will see you bright and early tomorrow. No oversleeping this time.”

“Right. Sorry, again.” Ylassa apologized sheepishly as Cassandra left the room.

Cullen waited a few seconds in an uncomfortable silence before followed heading for the door turning to Ylassa as he approached, “Herald, a word?”

Ylassa let out a long sigh before following him out of the Chantry. She paused as they stepped outside, “Didn’t you want to—”

“Keep walking.” He resolved not to stop, or even look at her, until they were out of Haven.

Sheepishly, she flitted behind him as he strode down the steps to the lower level, trying to keep his eyes trained forward.

Someone, somewhere, was cooking something. He heard Ylassa sniff behind him, “Oh, wait, I didn’t get breakfast, do you think we could—”

“No.”

They passed by one of the camps on the lower level, the one where Varric liked to spend his free time. There he was, sitting in front of one of the fires. He sent them a smirk so awful that Cullen wanted to bash his teeth in.

“My goodness,” the dwarf called out. “I can only imagine how _fun_ this morning’s meeting must have been.” His grin dissolved into full-blown laughter, “Commander, I see that you’ve finally had the chance to meet my _work associate_ , Ylassa Lavellan, Herald of Andraste.”

Varric turned his head to Ylassa, “Sleep well last night, Lassa? I bet you had a _nice, quiet_ night in.”

“Varric Tethras,” Cullen growled, “If you say one more word, then _hand to the Maker,_ I will smother you in your sleep tonight.”

Ylassa scoffed, “Get in line.”

_What did_ she _say to Varric?_

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” the dwarf placated, holding the palms of his hands up. All the same, the shit-eating grin never left his face. “I’ll leave you two to it. I’m sure you have a great deal of _Inquisition things_ to discuss.” Varric stood up from his spot in front of the campfire, tucking his notebook under his arm. “Oh, and Curly? Thanks for the conversation last night—I broke through the writer’s block! Wrote about ten pages. I’ll have to send you the first draft when it’s done. There’s a character I based on you!” Then, he mockingly saluted at the two of them and walked away.

Cullen let out a long sigh, his migraine and hangover mixing in the bright light of the sun reflecting off the snow. “Come on, Herald. We keep walking.” He turned and stalked off towards the front gate, the small elf woman silently at his heels.

 

Halfway down the path from Haven, Ylassa called from behind him, “I think we’re alone, you can yell at me now! Or murder me, or whatever reason you dragged me out here for.”

Cullen halted and spun around on his heels, “Why did you lie?” It came out as more of a growl than he meant it to.

She scoffed, “Right, because you were completely forthcoming with your identity, _Commander._ ”

He bristled. “Well, _I_ didn’t almost start a tavern brawl over someone claiming that I was the Commander,” Cullen spat. “I may have not mentioned my position to you, but you intentionally lied! And at the moment, we’re glazing over the fact that _you,_ the supposed _Herald of Andraste,_ got into a tavern brawl and pickpocketed someone yesterday!”

“And I’m _sorry,_ okay?” Ylassa yelled, her voice echoing in the wide space. Then she said it again, softer, but no less meaningful. “I’m sorry.”

The wind deflated out of Cullen’s sails at her apology. He had expected more of a fight from her—now he just felt like a wound that had been rubbed raw. “Why did you lie?” He asked again, this time less scolding and more imploring.

Ylassa crossed her arms, as if to close him out. “Growing up, I wasn’t used to being seen. I told you about my father, who was Keeper of my clan, and mother, a healer. My oldest sister, Deshanna, got her magic and became First Keeper—an apprentice. When our father died a few years ago, she became the Keeper. My twin brother, Arvis, came into his magic when we were about ten years old. I never came into mine.”

“That’s…” Cullen reflected on his Templar days. _Both parents being magic-users, as well as siblings?_ “Unusual. But not unheard of.”

She grimaced at the sympathetic look Cullen shot her. “Oh, don’t give me that,” she continued. “It’s something I came to terms with a long time ago. But when everyone in your family can summon fire into their hands, and you can’t, you sort of fade into the background.” She chuckled.

“I can’t imagine you fading into the background anywhere,” he breathed, and _he meant it._

“Yeah, well, it turned into much of my youth being spent acting out and getting into trouble just to get noticed.” She shrugged nonchalantly, as if it meant nothing.

_Freckles. She had freckles._ He hadn’t noticed them in the low light of the tavern the night before, but in the mid-morning sun of Haven, he could see them playing with the branches of her tattoo that grew across her high cheekbones. The freckles also littered her neck, and what little of her collarbone was visible under her sweater.

A soft smile spread across her lips, “My clan sent me to the Conclave, then…” She laughed, but it was full of exasperation, “Everything went to _shit._ I woke up, and suddenly I was the ‘knife-ears’ who murdered the Divine, and their friends and families. After I helped Cassandra and the others stop the Breach from spreading, the same people who vilified me were _praising_ me, and claiming that I was rescued and sent to them by a god I don’t even believe in.” Ylassa released her arms to her sides, clenching and unclenching her fists, “I’m just not used to it, I suppose. I went to the Singing Maiden last night and… I just wanted to get a few ales and pretend for a little bit that the world wasn’t upside-down.”

Cullen swallowed. Without realizing it, he had gone to the Singing Maiden last night to do the same thing.

“I didn’t expect to get into an argument with those obnoxious people calling me the Herald. And I certainly didn’t expect to meet you, or that you would be the _fucking Commander,_ or that I would enjoy your company as much as I did. That’s why when everything that happened…” She trailed off. Her cheeks were red, but Cullen wasn’t sure if she was flustered or just cold. “Well, when it _happened_ , I ran. Lying to you didn’t feel good.”

His heart panged, and now it was his turn to cross his arms to close himself off from her. “Well, I’m glad you see the error of your ways now that you realize that your actions have consequences.”

She bristled, straightening her back, but her face stayed neutral, “You’re upset, I get that. What I did was inexcusable. If I could go back and spare you this whole mess by telling you the truth, I…” She sighed.

“But you didn’t.”

She crossed her arms and stared down at the ground.

“Last night didn’t happen.” Cullen regretted the words as soon as they came out of his mouth.

Ylassa blinked a few times, but otherwise her face kept composure. “Good. We’re on the same page then.”

“And it’s not because you rejected me,” he added. “But you’re the Herald, and I’m the Commander, and the Inquisition comes first.”

“You don’t need to explain yourself.”

Cullen wished that her facial expressions would be more obvious, one way or the other. His face was probably an open book, but hers wasn’t. It wasn’t a power dynamic he enjoyed. “You are the Herald of Andraste now, and you need to act like it.”

“Of course.”

Every cell in his body was screaming at him to get out of the situation, so he did, backtracking down the path they had come down. “ _Herald,_ ” he bade her goodbye as he walked by her.

She did not move to follow him, probably to give them some distance. However, she turned over her shoulder to call after him, “For what it’s worth…”

He halted in his tracks, but did not turn around.

“I meant what I said last night about not deserving kindness or goodness. Maybe now you understand why.”

He finally turned to look at her, but she was no longer looking at him. Instead, she was staring up at the Breach. “Good day, _Commander_.”

With that dismissal, Cullen began his way up the path to Haven.

When he was a teenager going through his Templar training, one of his trainers had told him something that still stuck with him to this day: _“Your pride will be the greatest obstacle that you will need to overcome if you want to become a Templar.”_ Cullen apparently had further to go than he thought.

He could have spoken to her less harshly, or tried to come from a place of understanding. Every step up the path to Haven, every _crunch_ of snow under his boots, cemented her final words into his head. She thought of him as ‘good’—he himself didn’t believe that. A good person didn’t commit the atrocities he had during his time in the Circle, or speak to Ylassa the way he had.

She had lied to him, sure. But she had talked with him all night, and helped him with a bloody nose. She had thrown a few punches, but only after they hit him first. And she had stolen, but only to give Flissa the money that was due to her. When Cullen had invited her to sleep with him, something that would have taken her lie from questionable to downright unforgiveable, she had backed off. And today, she had apologized for her actions with almost no coercion on his end—she understood the lengths to which she had wronged him.

Something in Cullen’s gut told him that those things were genuinely _Ylassa._ The stories that she had told him—falling out of a tree, breaking her rib, having her nose set back in place—were probably true as well. But his pride had taken a hit in the process, and he had done what he always did best—throw up walls and become hostile. Why did he always do that? Why did he do that to _her?_

Reaching the gate to Haven, the story she had told him about falling out of the tree flashed back to him.

_"You broke your rib, and getting sap in your hair was the worst part?”_

_"Pride heals slower.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! I just want to thank everyone for the reads and kudos-- it means the world to me.


	4. Whiskey and Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The War Council is discussing how to handle the Mage-Templar conflict, and tensions between Ylassa and Cullen come to a head. Cullen says something he regrets.

“You’re incorrigible.”

“Incorrigible? We’re reduced to name-calling now?”

In the War Room of Haven, Ylassa and Cullen were-- yet again-- engaged in their regular shouting match over whether the Inquisition should recruit the Mages or the Templars. Cassandra, Josephine, and Leliana were present in the room, but had long ago stopped giving their input on the matter. Leliana had removed the lilac gloves from her hands to pick at some dirt under her fingernails, Josephine was preoccupying herself with writing letters, and Cassandra sat at the head of the table, watching Ylassa and Cullen on either side with her head in her hands, clearly bored.  

“Not name-calling,” Ylassa spat. “Name-calling would be if I called you a Templar asshole. Which you are.”

Anger flushed through him and he threw his hands in the air. “The Herald of Andraste, everybody,” he announced to everyone in the room, none of whom acknowledged him.

“All I’m saying, Commander—all I _have been_ saying this whole time—is that we should recruit the faction that actually wants to work with us.”

 _Maker, she was stubborn._ “And _I_ have been saying, the mages are too dangerous. Templars would better know how to combat the magic of the Breach.”

Josephine tried to helpfully change the subject, as she had been doing for the past week. “You know, I just received a letter from a noble family in—"

“I’m sorry, are we talking about the same Templars who I saw punch a Chantry Mother in Val Royeaux? They don’t want anything to do with us!”

“Which is why we need to wait and apply more pressure on the Templars, instead of alienating them by pursuing the mages.”

“We don’t have _time_ to wait and apply more pressure! Creators,” Ylassa breathed in exasperation. “We’re going around in circles.”

“Might I suggest tabling this discussion?” Cassandra interjected. “Again?”

Ylassa shot a sideways glance at her, “We need to make a decision soon, Cass.”

“Yes,” Cassandra agreed. “But you two have been at this for an hour. And you were at this for an hour yesterday.”

“Well maybe if _someone--_ ” Ylassa gave a pointed look at Cullen, “—could understand a lost cause when he saw one, we could come to a decision a lot faster.”

“Well, excuse me for finding the lost cause preferable to getting accidentally blown up!”

Ylassa laughed, mockingly, “And excuse me for wanting to take a risk instead of waiting around to be murdered by demons while the Templars make up their fucking minds.”

Cullen huffed, “Do you even have any idea of the situation? How dire this is, and how we can’t go rushing into it blindly? Perhaps this discussion should be limited to people who have experience working with magic, and Templars, and mages. Not people who only began experiencing the world outside of their clan _a few months ago_.” As soon as the words came out of his mouth, he regretted them. He saw Ylassa grow suddenly quiet and wince.

Cassandra stood out of her chair, as if she was worried about physically having to come between them, “Enough. Both of you. Before you say something that you regret.”

“Bit late for that, isn’t it?” Ylassa stared at Cassandra, then to Cullen, then to Leliana and Josephine, who were busy looking anywhere else except at the three of them. “You’re right, Cass,” she said, her voice suddenly demure. “This isn’t getting us anywhere. And perhaps you, Commander--” she turned her piercing gaze to him, “—are not as kind as I thought. So go fuck yourself.”

Her words hit Cullen like a punch in the ribs. She turned around on her heel and stalked off towards the door to the Chantry.

“The meeting isn’t over—” Cullen called out after her, but the door slammed shut behind her. He turned to Cassandra, “I guess the meeting is over.”

Cassandra scowled at Cullen—Cassandra almost always looked like she was scowling, but this was certainly an intentional scowl—before stomping off after Ylassa. Josephine began stacking all of her correspondence into a pile on the desk, “Well, this has certainly been fun. We must do it again sometime.”

“Certainly,” Leliana agreed sarcastically, “Same time tomorrow?”

“You two can’t _possibly_ think I’m being the bad guy here.”

“You’re both being obstinate. But what you said was absolutely uncalled for.” Josephine spat as the took the pile of papers and headed for the door.

Leliana followed her, pulling her lilac gloves back onto her hands, but stopped in the doorway to turn back to Cullen, “You know, Commander… The Herald makes the final decision in this, and she could make it at any time. You may want to ask yourself _why_ she’s still bothering to argue this with you.” She left, and the door shut behind her.

“I don’t know what that means!” Cullen called out to her halfheartedly. He began to pick up his notes and reports off of the table and leave the War Room.

Outside of the doors to the Chantry, he spotted Ylassa and Cassandra talking, although their tones were so hushed he couldn’t make anything out at his distance. Ylassa was talking animatedly, her hands flailing wildly, while Cassandra put her arm on the other’s shoulder to placate her. Ylassa’s head hung down until her chin hit her chest, and Cullen felt a weight at the pit of his stomach. She seemed obviously upset.

Cassandra said something, and Ylassa shook her head, still hung low. Cassandra put her free hand on the elf’s other shoulder and they stood there a few seconds. Cullen realized that it was probably the closest Cassandra got to hugging people, and it seemed like Ylassa had realized this as well. Her head lifted, she smiled at Cassandra sadly, and walked away.

“Herald,” Cullen called after her. “Wait—”

Ylassa’s head spun around to look at him and immediately spun back around. Her gait doubled until she disappeared down the steps to the lower level of Haven. Cassandra spun around to glare at him before he could follow Ylassa. “Don’t,” was all she said to him.

“I wanted to apologize to her, Seeker.”

“I know, and that’s good of you. But I think that she needs to calm down first, or else she won’t hear it. Or know that you really mean it.”

They were wise words—he had always thought that Cassandra was far wiser than her years.

“I know that what I said in the War Room wasn’t kind, but…”

“You didn’t expect her to be that upset?” She finished. “You may not know this, Commander, but most people don’t just sit and say nothing when someone blatantly pokes at their insecurities.”

“Insecurity?” He scoffed. “Ylassa has insecurities?”

“You’re right to be skeptical. But I travel with her, and I talk to her after meetings. While time has made her more certain in her decisions as the Herald, her Dalish origins are still something of an insecurity for her.”

Cullen crossed his arms, “I—I didn’t know that.” However awful he had felt before, that feeling was now doubled. “I just… wanted to make sure she understood the gravity of the situation.”

“Believe me, she does.”

Cullen said nothing, just rubbed at his face with his hands.

“You didn’t hear this from me—” Cassandra began, “—but the Herald didn’t learn how to read until last year.”

Cullen balked, “You can’t be serious. Her Trade is perfect.”

“She _speaks_ Trade perfectly, sure. The Herald explained to me Dalish clans do not teach their people to read or write in Trade unless absolutely necessary, like if they’re a mage or a merchant. The elders can control the spread of information coming from outside of the clan that way. The Herald was only a hunter, so they didn’t teach her.”

“How did she finally learn?”

“She told me that one day she was in Wycome, and she paid a book merchant literally all the coin she had to teach her the alphabet. It was hard for her to practice when her clan was on the move. They didn’t have books, but she managed. She never learned to write, though.”

Cullen chuckled, “Is that why you always write the field reports?”

Cassandra smirked, an odd trait for her—Ylassa must be rubbing off on her. “Well, Varric and Solas aren’t going to do it. And the Herald’s handwriting and spelling are _atrocious._ I’m doing you a favor.” Then she beamed, like a proud mother hen, “She’s getting better, though. Varric’s ego means that he has a copy of every book he’s ever written in his possession, and Josephine is gradually amassing a scholarly library. The Herald was cut off from the rest of Thedas for so long, but she’s making up for it now.”

“When I made that comment about her Dalish origins, did she think that I was making fun of her _not knowing how to read?_ Is that what upset her?”

“No,” Cassandra mused. “More than she’s been putting in all of this effort to learn about and participate in the world around her, but people will always see her as a savage.”

Cullen suddenly wished that a rift would open right where he was and swallow him whole. “I don’t see her as that.”

“You sort of implied that you did. This decision-- the mages versus the Templars…” Cassandra shifted on her feet. “I don’t necessarily agree with the Herald’s stance, but she has done her research. She doesn’t make a decision without understanding the situation from every angle.”

“That’s good of her,” he admitted.

The ‘proud mother hen’ smile returned to Cassandra’s face. “I told you that I had faith in her.”

“That you did.”

“You and the Herald… You’re just very passionate people. It would be madness to think that you will always agree. You just need to handle your disagreements better. Come from a place of respect.”

He pondered on that for a moment, “Lady Seeker, how did you ever get to be so wise?”

“Years of dealing with Templars like you, and tempers like hers.”

Cassandra excused herself off to Maker-knows-where, and Cullen found himself standing, alone, at the entrance to the Chantry. He decided that enough time had passed, and that he should probably track down the Herald.

Cullen’s first guess as to the Herald’s location was her cabin. The lights were dim, and no one had answered.

His second guess were the catacombs under the Chantry, which they used for storage—someone had mentioned, from time to time, that Ylassa liked to practice lockpicking on the many cells and locked crates they kept down there.

His third guess was to try Varric and see if he had any idea of her whereabouts, seeing as the him and Ylassa seemed particularly close. The camp on the lower level of Haven where Varric kept his tent was deserted.

His final attempt was to check the tavern. After that, he would have to start checking outside of Haven. That seemed like it would be particularly troublesome, so he hoped that the tavern would be the last place he had to look.

As Cullen approached the tavern, he spotted Varric leaning to the side of the outer door. “Hello Varric,” he acknowledged. “Not going in today?”

“Too crowded for my tastes,” Varric raised his drink. “Flissa is letting me drink out here, though. Nice girl.”

“Yeah. Have you seen the Herald around?”

“Lassa? Not recently, why?” Varric gave a wicked grin at Cullen, who huffed in response.

“Just… looking for her. Is she in the tavern?”

“Don’t really know, I just got here.”

“I’ll go in and look then.” As he moved to open the door, Varric stuck his forearm out.

“Can’t let you do that, Curly.” He gave a mockingly apologetic face.

Cullen raised a curt eyebrow. “Oh, so she is _definitely_ in there.”

Varric swore under his breath, “Fine. She is. And I’m not supposed to let you in.”

“She’s seriously banning me from the tavern? That is—” he groaned, not even able to finish his sentence out of frustration. “Let me in before I force my way in.”

“I’ll fake an injury, and Ylassa will be angry that you violated her request for privacy _and_ injured her friend.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“You don’t believe that I’d actually _do_ that, or you don’t think she’d _believe me_?”

Cullen rolled his eyes, “Either. Both. Pick one.”

“Try me. The Herald has bestowed upon me a sacred duty, and I am sworn to uphold it.” Varric smiled smugly and took a long sip from his mug of ale.

Cullen huffed, “Fine, what’s she offering you? I’ll double it.”

“I’m not sure which is more insulting, Curly. The fact that you think Ylassa had to bribe me, or the fact that you think I can be persuaded to sell my friend down the river.”

“Triple.” Cullen crossed his arms in front of him.

This seemed to intrigue Varric. “Let me ask you something first. There’s obviously a reason she doesn’t want to talk to you. Why do you want to see her so badly?”

Cullen shifted on his feet uncomfortably, “It has been brought to my attention that… Well, I’ve been an ass, I suppose. I want to apologize to her.”

Varric considered this for a moment. “Okay, I’ll let you in.”

“Seriously?” _It can’t be that simple,_ he thought.

“Sure, for that triple price you talked about earlier.”

_Ah. There it is._

Varric stuck his meaty palm out flat, “Three hundred coins, if you’d be so kind.”

“Three hu—The Herald seriously paid you one hundred coins to keep me out of this tavern?”

“Yeah, and she paid me up front. You know, for a rogue, she puts way too much trust in other people. It’s kind of adorable.”

Cullen pawed through his coin pouch, “Maker’s balls, I don’t have that much on me. I’m going to have to go back to my tent.”

“Tick tock, Commander,” the dwarf teased as Cullen headed back to his quarters.

In his quarters, Cullen fished a larger bag out of a drawer in his desk and dumped its contents out, counting out the coins. He swore again—even with the contents of his smaller pouch, he had about two hundred and seventy-five. Was he really going to give Varric all his money to apologize to the Herald? “I could just apologize to her tomorrow,” he mused for a moment. “Or not at all.” He decided against that thought as he pocketed all the coins.

He passed by his mirror on the way out and stopped to fix his hair— _wait, why was he doing that?_ —before heading back to the Singing Maiden. There he found Varric, still playing sentry, sipping from his mug of ale. “You’re back,” he chirped. “Do you have my three hundred?”

Cullen sighed and tossed him the coin pouch, “It’s actually two-seventy-five. Sorry, it’s all I have.”

“I don’t know, Commander… I was promised three hundred.” Cullen only glared at him, causing Varric to shift uncomfortably. “Fine,” Varric said as he tied the coin pouch to his belt. “But only because I think she could use the apology. Also, because I know you’re still sweet on her.”

Cullen opened his mouth to say something, but Varric shushed him, “And before you try to tell me that you’re not, remember that you just paid me two-seventy-five to talk to her, when you could have just waited out here until she left the tavern.”

 _Andraste’s tits, why didn’t he think of that?_ He rubbed at the bridge of his nose. “Can I have that back?”

“No. And don’t let anyone know I compromised about the price, Curly. I don’t want people to think I’m getting soft in my old age.”

“Not soft enough,” Cullen muttered as he opened the door to the tavern. “Take care, Varric.”

Inside of the tavern, Cullen spotted Ylassa sitting at a table in the corner. It was less crowded at the Singing Maiden than the last time he was there, but he was still impressed that Ylassa managed to get an entire table to herself. She either used her leverage as the Herald or intimidated someone out of it.

Sera—the weird elf girl they had recruited during Ylassa’s last trip to Val Royeaux—approached Ylassa, who responded by unsheathing one of her daggers and slamming it into the table. Sera raised her hands into the air and turned away from the table, but grinned as she walked away, as if the two of them were playing a game. Sera sent Cullen a glance as she passed by him.

Cullen realized that he may have made a terrible mistake coming here.

Ylassa groaned as he approached the table and darted her eyes to the door, “Dammit, Varric! I want my hundred coins back!” Cullen turned around in time to see the dwarf stick his head back out of the doorway and slam the door. Her black eyes moved back to Cullen, “How much did you offer him?”

“Too damn much. Can I sit here?”

Ylassa reluctantly nodded at the open seat and focused on working her dagger out of the table. Once she had done so, she sheathed it once more behind her back and took a deep breath.

“I’m sorry—” “I apologize—”

“Oh.” They had both spoken at the same time, and Cullen wasn’t sure if he should let her speak first out of politeness, or to be the bigger person and apologize first. Cullen cleared his throat, “What do you have to be sorry about?”

She shrugged, sliding her mug of ale across the table from hand to hand. “For calling you incorrigible. And a Templar asshole. And telling you to go fuck yourself.”

“You weren’t wrong. And that’s ‘former Templar asshole’ to you.” Ylassa tilted her head back and laughed, and Cullen was happy his attempt at brevity had alleviated the tension. “And I’m sorry,” he added. “Cassandra pointed out to me that we’re both very passionate people, and we’re not always going to agree. But please never doubt that I think you have the Inquisition’s best interests at heart. I hold a great deal of respect for you. This disagreement does not change that.”  

He had been reluctant to look at Ylassa during the duration of his apology, and he took this break to look back at her to gauge his progress. As usual, he found her difficult to read. Taking her silence as his signal to continue, he did.

“More importantly, I realize that my statement about your Dalish origins making you unqualified to speak on this decision was absolutely uncalled for. It certainly seems like you did your due diligence before taking a side. You probably have a fresher, more objective take than someone who’s been wrapped up in this conflict for too long, like I have. I recognize that now.” He sighed, “I’m done.”

The corners of Ylassa’s mouth turned into a frown, and for a moment, Cullen worried that he had given an insufficient apology, or said something else to offend her. Finally, she inhaled sharply, “You know, Commander, if we recruit the mages, it’s not like we’re going to let them run amok in Haven practicing blood magic. I have ideas for some safeguards.”

This wasn’t exactly the way that Cullen expected the conversation to go, but he wasn’t opposed to it. “I’m listening.”

“Do you want an ale?”

He did, but he realized that he was broke. “I’m fine for now.”

“All right.” She leaned back in her chair, balancing her own mug on her kneecap. “Well, for starters, we’re seen as an extension of the Chantry. The fact that the Chantry has denounced us makes little difference to the people. There’s going to be some Templars who disagree with the decision to break off from the Chantry. We should exercise every resource we have to recruit those. From there, we can establish policies— I’m thinking about a council of sorts, with representatives from mages, Templars, and the Inquisition. We can establish regulations for the Templars, like how to prevent blood magic and abominations in the mage ranks, while giving the mages enough freedom and mobility to benefit the Inquisition.”

Cullen leaned back his chair to think about it, “That… might just work. It won’t be easy, but it could work.”

Ylassa nodded, “Our primary focus should be on the mages, but we should exercise every available resource in recruiting Templars who may have left the Order. Their assistance will be invaluable.” She gave a tentative pause before adding, “As will yours.”

Cullen chuckled, “Is that why you’ve been arguing with me this past week about this, as opposed to just making a decision?”

She fiddled with her mug, not looking at him. “This is an important decision, Commander. One that could make or break our attempts to seal the Breach. I will not make a decision without the support of every one of my advisors.”

“I can support you and not agree with you, Herald. I will support whatever decision you think is best.”

She smiled, not her usual smirk, but an actual smile. “I appreciate that, Commander. Really.”

They sat at the table in silence for a moment, relishing in the understanding they had just come to. Suddenly, she giggled.

“What’s so funny?”

“What Cassandra said _to me_ earlier, is that we would be unstoppable if we could ever manage to be on the same side.”

“We’re on the same side already, aren’t we? The Inquisition.”

“Huh,” she sipped at her drink. “I hadn’t thought about it like that, but you’re right.” There was another silence. “How much money did you have to give Varric for him to let you in?”

“About three hundred.”

Her jaw slacked a little, “You offered Varric three hundred coins to come in here when you could have just ambushed me as I left the tavern?”

“You know, he pointed that out to me as soon as I handed the money over to him. I felt like a damn idiot.”

The corner of her mouth lifted, “Come on, let’s go see if I can get you your coin back. And, possibly, mine.”

“You know what? It was worth it. I’d rather just sit here and drink.”

“You’re not drinking.”

“I, uh…” Cullen cleared his throat. “I may have given Varric all of my money.”

She blinked once, “I’m sorry?”

“I… Gave Varric all of my money. To get in here.”

A wheeze of laughter bubbled out of Ylassa. “Oh, now I’m _definitely_ going to try to get you your coin back. You seriously gave Varric all of your money so you could come here and apologize? I’m flattered, actually.”

“You should be.”

Ylassa got up from her seat. “Hey Sera!” She called out across the tavern. “Watch the table!” Then she tapped Cullen hard on the shoulder of his armor, “Come on.”

Varric was still drinking outside of the tavern door when they stepped outside. He regarded them with a smirk. She crossed her arms and glared at Varric, with Cullen mirroring her pose.

“Aww, look who made up!”

“Varric,” Ylassa growled. “I believe you owe both of us our money back.”

“I owe _you_ your money back, sure. You paid for a promise that I did not deliver, and although that’s your mistake for paying up front, I am an honorable man.”

Cullen snorted at that.

“But Curly here,” Varric pointed at Cullen. “He paid to get into the tavern. That deal is good.”

“It was literally all of my money!” Cullen protested.

“You’re the one who offered triple.”

“You’re the one who _made_ me offer triple.”

“Okay, Varric,” Ylassa leaned against the open doorway of the tavern. “You can keep _my_ one hundred coins. That should be enough to get you sufficiently wasted, and I am giving it to you as my friend. But give the Commander his money back—he was just trying to make a grand gesture. Granted, a stupid one.”

Cullen sent her a quick side glance before returning his glare to Varric.

Varric considered it for a moment, “Fine, but the next time you have to go to the Storm Coast, leave me out of it.”

“Deal.”

The dwarf tossed Cullen his coin pouch. “Pleasure doing business with you all.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Cullen grumbled as they went back to the tavern. Cullen waved down Flissa, who was busy with another patron, and he leaned against the bar as he waited to order. “Can I give you your one-hundred coins? I feel bad that you gave yours up to get mine back.”

Ylassa shrugged it off, “Don’t worry about it.”

“I can get the next round, if you want. And the round after that, and the next…” he did some quick arithmetic in his head. “Eighteen rounds after that?”

She exhaled sharply through her nose, “No, really. It’s all right.”

“Fine, just the next round then?” Cullen liked the idea of drinking with Ylassa again. To laugh and hear her stories again, with the added benefit of _knowing_ she was the Herald. Instead of them being at each other’s throats all the damn time.

“I’m, uh…” She shoved her hands in the pockets of her coat. “I’d rather avoid a repeat of the last time we drank together, if that’s all right with you. I’m just going to go back to my quarters.”

He felt like he’d been slapped, but instead he just let out a long exhale, “Oh. Uh…” He rubbed at the back of his head, “All right, then. Have a good night, Herald.”

“You too, Commander.” She gave a small but sad smile and turned to leave, but she stopped and put her hand on the shoulder of his armor. “Hey… Thanks for the apology, Cullen. It really meant a lot to me.”

His heart fluttered at her abandonment of formality, “Of course. And I’m going to think about what you said tonight about the safeguards. They’re good ideas, Lassa.” The casual nickname that some of her companions had taken to calling her fell loosely from his mouth as if he had known it all of his life.

She beamed, “I really must be on to something if _you_ don’t hate my ideas. Although I’m open to any suggestions on improvements.” She tapped his shoulder one final time before turning toward the door. “Night.”

“Night.”

Cullen watched her until the door closed behind her, and then sighed. That had been the first time either of them had mentioned the night they first met, he realized. That knowledge had made it all the more depressing to him.

That night didn’t happen, hadn’t it? And yet he found himself thinking about it more often than he should. He had been given a doorway into who the Herald truly was, only to have it slammed in his face—something that was almost entirely his fault. He’s treated Ylassa unkindly more often than not, so he shouldn’t be surprised when his attempts at kindness are met coldly. It still stung, though, but it was a sting he accepted.

Ylassa had said that she didn’t deserve goodness. Maybe, in reality, it was him that didn’t deserve it. 

Flissa rounded the bar, “Sorry about that wait, Commander. Can I get you anything?”

Cullen stared at the door for a few more seconds before turning his gaze to Flissa, “Whiskey.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm actually finishing chapters, instead of writing miscellaneous scenes strung together by imaginary thread. I just want to thank you all for the support and kudos-- it's such a motivator, and it means a lot to me. Thanks for joining me in this journey.
> 
> Chapter Title borrowed from Voxtrot's "Whiskey and Water" Check it out at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xpmTVGVtz7w


	5. Meet Me Halfway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen's symptoms of lyrium withdrawal worsen, which puts a strain on his relationships with anybody with a pulse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heavy angst, some PTSD and withdrawal stuff here.
> 
> This scene (or, the gist of the scene, anyway) happens much earlier in this story than it does in the actual game. But I figured something would have to give with these two.
> 
> Fun Fact: Being a chronic migraine sufferer for many years makes you halfway decent at writing about them. At least I have that going for me.

“Last order of business before we adjourn,” Josephine said the next morning as she scanned the agenda for the day’s War Table meeting. She let out a rather undiplomatic groan, “Tabled from yesterday—meeting with the mages _and-slash-or_ the Templars. Discussions?”

The three other women in the room turned their gazes to Cullen and Ylassa, who stood across the table from each other. The three’s gazes and heavy silence spoke volumes.

Cullen gave a shrug that he hoped look nonchalant, “We’re all in agreement, right? Mages?”

Cassandra’s eyebrows shot almost completely up her forehead, “You’ve decided, then?”

“ _Only_ that we would take Grand Enchanter Fiona’s offer of a meeting. Although the Herald has pitched a few ideas in terms of safeguards for adding more mages into our troops, I’d like to have those ideas cemented before we start openly negotiating with them. We will go to the meeting. And _nothing more_ ,” he emphasized, making sure that he caught Ylassa’s eyes.

All the same, Ylassa was beaming, “Of course, Commander. You have my word that we’ll regroup before we openly start any negotiations with _either_ faction.”

“Good.”

The two of them turned their gazes back to the other three. Cullen noted that Leliana, possibly the only person better at keeping a neutral expression than Ylassa, seemed pleasantly surprised.

Josephine smiled, “It looks like we’ve reached an agreement. I will write to Grand Enchanter Fiona, and the Herald and her party will set off in a few days.” The, almost proclamatory, she declared, “Meeting adjourned!”

Cassandra sighed in relief. Even Leliana seemed pleased.

The meeting had been blessedly short, and Cullen sent a quick prayer to the Maker for that. The lyrium withdrawals, coupled with the severity of the War Meetings and the stress of handling the troops, had taken a toll on him this week. It hurt to stand, it hurt to sit, it hurt to focus his eyes on one thing for too long. Being awake was torture, sleeping was a different kind of torture, and he hadn’t eaten in a day and a half because even the smell of food was enough to send his stomach reeling.

Lyrium withdrawal was like a hangover you couldn’t escape with a bowl of broth and a bit of the hair of the dog that bit you. In an ideal world, he would spend his afternoon holed up in his tent with his head under the covers to block out the light and sound. Not sleeping, of course. Sleeping brought nightmares—a different form of torture to break up the monotony.

Alas, he could not do that. There was things to do as the Commander—troops and requisitions to oversee, decisions to make, plans to bring to fruition. There would be no rest until the evening. If he was lucky.

Cullen swung by the kitchen to grab the heel of a loaf of dry, white bread. It wasn’t stale, but it was rather flavorless. At this point, he needed to shove _something_ down his gullet, or else he’d pass out from low blood sugar while standing. He nibbled on the heel of bread as he exited the Chantry and headed for the gates of Haven.

As he arrived at the training grounds, a scout approached him with a clipboard of documents for Cullen to read and sign off on. By the second page, the words began to float and move, and the sharp yet familiar _pang!_ of a migraine arrived.

 _You could end this, you know_.

Ah, yes. It was time for that little voice in the back of his head to arrive. It was exactly the opposite of what he needed right now, which is exactly why it arrived.

_Look at you. You can’t even read a document. You’re weak. Useless._

Cullen countered the autonomous thought with his own. _This is just a bad day._

The thoughts came now, in quick succession, and Cullen couldn’t fight them off.

_Bad week? Soon it’ll be bad month. Bad year. You could escape this, you know, but you won’t._

_You can’t keep any of them safe in a position like this. You’re not fit to be Commander._

_You could end this, you know. The emergency philter of lyrium you keep in your desk. You could stop torturing yourself. You could be whole again. Fit to be the man the Inquisition expects you to be._

Cullen practically muttered under his breath, _I am more of a man off lyrium than I ever was chained to the Order that way._

 _Sure, but at what cost, Rutherford? You can’t protect any of the people you care about in this state. You brother and sisters. Cass. Josephine. Leliana. Oh, and what about_ Lassa? _You_ certainly _can’t protect_ her.

_Make it easy on yourself, and everyone around you. Take the lyrium._

_Take it. Takeittakeittakeittakeit—_

“Commander?”

“ _Maker!”_ He yelped, almost dropping his clipboard. He spun around on his heel, only to see Ylassa standing behind him, looking slightly flustered.

“Sorry, sorry!" An undeniable grin of amusement spread on her face. "Creators, you’re a jumpy one.”

His heart was beating out of his chest. He contemplated clutching it dramatically, but he didn’t want to seem like _more_ of an aristocratic woman in front of his men, considering he practically _squealed_ in front of them just moments ago. “Well, I was very lost in thought, and you are _very_ light on your feet.”

She smirked, “Wouldn’t have made it this far in life if I wasn’t.”

Cullen focused on breathing in and out as he felt color rise in his cheeks, “Right. Something you needed, Herald?”

“Oh. Yes. I just… Uh…” Her hands met behind her back and she huffed. “I just wanted to thank you.”

Cullen’s eyebrows knit together, “For…?”

Ylassa’s brows furrowed, mirroring his confusion. “For—Creators, Commander, for the _War Meeting._ I know that wasn’t easy for you.”

He balked at her, “Wasn’t _easy_?”

“You know… You’re a Templar, and we’re going into talks with the mage rebellion. Just… thank you for putting your faith in me, I guess.”

“No thanks necessary, Herald. I already said I’d support whatever decision you thought was best,” Cullen grumbled as he returned to reading the clipboard. The words began to float and swim immediately. He held back a groan as he felt another wave of pain attack the back of his right eyeball, trickling down until even his back molars hurt.

“I know, but I also know that you have a lot of _very_ valid concerns. I’m taking them to heart. We can work on them together.”

“I thought we were just going to _talk_ to Fiona?” Cullen reminded.

“Well, _yes,_ but—”

“Then that’s that.” Cullen once again returned to the clipboard. He could not read it on account of his eyeballs vibrating.

Ylassa huffed, much like a petulant child. “I’m trying to bridge the divide here, Commander. Can you meet me halfway?”

“Look,” Cullen’s hands flew down to his side in exasperation, the clipboard smacking the armor of his thigh. “There is no divide. Now would you please, kindly, _find someone else to bother_?”

_Fuck, not again._

Ylassa’s lips pursed as she stared Cullen down. She blinked a few times, hard, then let out a long sigh through her nose. “Okay, then.”

“Herald, I—"

He watched Ylassa slink off, but she hadn’t made it more than a few steps before she halted. She straightened her back and spun around to face him, with a new vigor, “You know, Commander, if you hated my guts and wanted to be an asshole to me, then fine. Get in line behind the Chantry, three quarters of Orlais, my own sister, and Solas _for some fucking reason_. I’m used to it. And if you wanted to be my friend, and treat me kindly, I would welcome it. Creators know that I need all the friends I can get right now.”

She poked Cullen’s chest armor sharply. It didn’t make much of an impact physically, but it certainly made a statement. “But I’m getting really exhausted trying to figure out which one you’re going to be from moment to moment, so if you could just pick one and stick with it, I would _really appreciate it_.”

Ylassa hadn’t raised her voice, but the pure intensity and vitriol in her voice alone had caused Rylen and a few other training soldiers nearby to stop and stare at the two of them. She snapped her head towards the gawking soldiers, “And what the _fuck_ are you all staring at? Rift demons aren’t going pause the battle so you can sightsee. Get back to it.” The soldiers wordlessly returned to their sparring session.

For the better part of the last minute, Cullen had been standing there, mouth slightly agape as Ylassa picked him apart, whittling him down to the bone, and in front of his men, no less. Then he watched her turn on her heel once more and, and with a bit more confidence, march off toward the front gate to Haven.

He saw Ylassa pass Cassandra, who was coming from the other direction. They shared a few choice words. He couldn’t hear what Ylassa said, but she turned over her shoulder to shoot daggers at Cullen with her eyes. Cassandra did the same.

Cassandra marched, with new vigor and purpose, up to Cullen. “What in the Void did you _do_?” she called when she was within earshot. “The Mage-Templar argument is _over_ , what are you even still _fighting about?_ ”

_Maker, his day was just getting worse and worse, wasn’t it?_

Another migraine pang hit, one that caused a physical reaction he couldn’t suppress. Cassandra’s face softened as he winced, but he brushed it off. “Fine, I’m fine.”

_Emergency lyrium. Take it._

Cassandra shook her head, “You’ve been pushing yourself too hard, Commander.”

“I don’t have much of a choice, Lady Seeker. If I could be in bed holding the covers over my eyes right now, _believe me,_ I would be.” He suddenly felt like the day-old heel of bread he ate earlier was about to come back up. “I think we maybe need to revisit… _That thing_ we’ve discussed.”

“I think you’re just having a hard day.”

“ _Hard week_ ,” he countered, like his own intrusive thoughts had done earlier before.

“Even so. I think you need to inform the Herald. If you did, she’d understand you better. Maybe come to an understanding of sorts. You cannot keep your suffering private.”

He balked, “You think that I need to let _Lassa_ in? Haven’s third-biggest gossip, losing only to Varric and Vivienne?”

“You know, she can be very trustworthy when you need her to be. She’s trying to become a better person. Mend bridges with you—although I’m not really sure _why_ there was a burned bridge in the first place. It’s none of my business,” Cassandra added with a smirk. “The least you could do is—”

“Meet her halfway,” Cullen finished.

"Precisely. She might surprise you. And you might surprise her.”

Cullen sighed, “I suppose you want me to go talk to her.”

“And after that, I want you to take the evening off. Get some rest.”

He grunted, “Surely you’re not serious.”

“I’ve run a training exercise or two in my day, you know.” Another smirk. Her time with Ylassa must be rubbing off on her.

“You do know that _I_ am supposed to be _your_ superior, right?”

Ignoring him, she called out to Rylen, “Knight Captain Rylen, I will be taking over this training exercise. Lead the way.” Rylen did so, and Cassandra got to work immediately, “You, there. How do you expect to bash with a shield when you hold it this way?”

As Cullen observed Cassandra bossing his soldiers around for a moment, a reminder struck him:

_I should write to Mia._

No matter, Mia could wait until later. He had another matter to attend to. He had a bridge to mend.

He headed back to the lower level of Haven, yet again bumping into Varric. “Curly!” the dwarf called.

"Varric,” Cullen greeted in kind. “Have you seen Lassa?” _The Herald,_ he almost corrected himself out loud.

“She barged through a little while ago. Reminded me of those tornadoes that we get on the coast sometimes. I’m guessing that was your doing?”

“You know me. All she has to do is bat her eyelashes, and I put my foot in my mouth.”

Varric snorted. “I’ve seen weirder tactics to seduce a woman, I guess.”

“If you’re suggesting that I feel _anything_ improper towards the Herald, you are sorely—”

Varric didn’t let him finish, “—she stomped off towards the Chantry. But since she’s not the praying type, my money would say she’s down in the catacombs.”

Cullen grumbled his thanks and stalked of towards the Chantry. He didn’t have the energy for Varric’s love of beating around the bush. He’d have to thank the dwarf when his head finally stopped hurting.

The catacombs underneath the Chantry were mostly empty, and therefore used for storage. The jail cells that lined the walls were empty, but _could_ be used to hold Inquisition prisoners, provided they had any.

Ylassa, however, liked to use them for lockpicking practice.

In the field, Ylassa was known to battle like a rogue—quick, light on her feet, able to move silently. Reports that Cullen read from Cassandra seemed to imply that she was competent with a bow, and even more competent with daggers. Lockpicking, however, wasn’t her strong suit. But it was something she endeavored to try, and the jail cells and locked chests in the catacombs left no shortage of locks to try to crack.

When Cullen found her, she was struggling with a small locked box. She was propped up against a wall, hiding behind crates, and holding the ornate box between her knees so she could get a good crack at it with her lockpick. He could hear her muttering to herself as she worked.

“Herald?” He called to her as he rounded the wall of crates.

Ylassa flitted his eyes up to him momentarily before returning her gaze to the box. “What the fuck do you want?” she asked, her expression hidden behind the cool and collected mask she put up whenever she was upset or angry.

“I owe you an explanation.”

“You don’t owe me shit.” With a slow, gentle, sweeping motion with her one of her hands, Cullen could hear the lock _click!_ as the lid popped open. Ylassa’s neutral façade temporarily broke as she smiled with pride, one of her ears twitching slightly.

“Maybe I don’t. But you deserve one, anyway.”

Cullen looked down at his hands, realizing that he was still holding the _fucking clipboard_. He threw it, a bit unceremoniously, upon the wall of crates he was leaning on.

Ylassa held the open—but empty—box in her lap, nervously drumming her fingers along its gilded sides. She stared out along the far wall, at nothing in particular, but didn’t shoo Cullen off.

He exhaled deeply, his breath hitching with nervousness. There was a deep silence until, finally, the confession tumbled out of his mouth. “I quit taking lyrium.”

Ylassa’s head snapped in Cullen’s direction for the first time since he had found her. “You _what?_ ” Her eyebrows knit together, and her ear twitched again.

“The lyrium. I quit taking it.”

She was silent for a bit, her eyes narrowed at him, clearly thinking about something.

He continued, “I’ve seen the long-term effects of lyrium use, Herald. It keeps Templars addicted and leashed to the service of the Order.” Kirkwall flashed, momentarily, behind Cullen’s eyes. “Until it drives them mad, or kills them. I am unsure which are the lucky ones.”

“You no longer wish to be tethered to an Order you no longer serve,” Ylassa finished for him, but not unkindly. She had ceased drumming on the sides of the box in her lap.

“The Order has taken much from me. My childhood and younger years, my freedom, arguably my sanity… And I gave much of it up willingly. But there is one thing that I have left that I refuse to let the Order take from me, and that is my future. I can only hope that you support my decision.”

“Support it? I _admire_ it. Creators know that I’ve got some chains back home that I’d like to break free of. If you kick lyrium, I’ll throw you a parade in the streets.” Ylassa’s gaze turned sympathetic, “I can’t imagine that this is an easy thing for you to do.”

Cullen chuckled, sort of. It was more of an exasperated wheeze. “No, it’s been… incredibly difficult, at times. But I have an agreement with the Lady Seeker that she will keep an eye on me, and will ensure that I step down if this ever interferes with my ability to perform my role with the Inquisition. So you don’t need to worry about that.”

Ylassa abruptly shut the lid of the box and swapped it for another box at her side, this one slightly larger and plain wood, with a padlock. She immediately set to work on the lock. “That’s not what I’m worried about. I’m worried about _you_. How are you, really?”

Cullen shifted his weight from foot to foot, “Fine.” Ylassa looked up at the box to glare at him, and under a few seconds of Ylassa’s scrutinizing gaze, he folded. “My head is _killing_ me today. More than usual. I feel like my eyeballs are being stabbed out with ice picks.”

Satisfied with the answer, she returned to the box. “So when you were short with me earlier—”

“It didn’t have anything to do with you, really,” he finished. “I’m just exhausted, and my head hurts, and I _know_ that’s not an excuse. But I’m trying.”

Ylassa let out a long sigh, “In all honesty, Commander, good military advisors are few and far between, and I will most likely never find a replacement that will put up with as much of my bullshit as you do. So please, for the love of all the Creators, _take care of yourself_. Just because this whole lyrium withdrawal thing is giving you an awful time doesn’t mean you should go around making it even harder on yourself.”

Cullen snorted, “You sound like Lady Seeker Cassandra.” Although he outwardly brushed off Ylassa’s display of worry, his heart internally flipped. _Damn that woman. Damn himself._

“The first, and most likely only time.” Ylassa twisted her wrist to the side sharply, and the lock clicked open.

“You’re getting good at that,” he noted. “Do I need to start worrying about supplies going missing?”

She shot him a playful glance, “Nah, if there was anything valuable down here, I would have stolen it already.”

“Are old, spare blankets not going for as much as they used to on the black market?” Cullen joked.

That actually made Ylassa _snicker_ , “It’s been a lean few years for the blanket fort-making businesses.”

Cullen leaned against the wall of crates, changing the subject. “When do you leave to meet with Enchanter Fiona?”

Ylassa tilted her head back onto the cool stone wall of the catacombs, “Three days from now.”

“Do you think you’re ready?”

“No,” she replied simply.

“Any particular reason why?”

“I just… I don’t know why I have to go to this. My job is to close rifts, right? Shouldn’t I be closing rifts?”

“You can probably convince your party to make a few detours after, if you want,” Cullen said with a smirk.

“Not what I meant.”

“What did you mean, then?”

Ylassa let out a long sigh through her nose. “We have absolutely no proof that I have any skill in… well, in politics. Shouldn’t we be sending Josephine? Or even Leliana?”

“Fiona asked for you.”

She scoffed, “I’m a Dalish girl who knows nothing about magic, or the War, or _any_ of this—”

“You’re the Herald of Andraste,” Cullen finished for her. “You wield the most power in all of Thedas _literally_ in the palm of your hand.”

Ylassa looked down at her left hand—always covered with a glove or bandage, no matter the time of day—and flexed it instinctively, “Most of the time, I wish I wasn’t. The Herald, I mean.”

“I know,” Cullen said, trying to sound sympathetic.

“But then, at the same time…” she continued. “Where the fuck would I be if I wasn’t? Dead at the Temple of Sacred Ashes. So being the Herald of Andraste beats the alternative, I suppose.”

“We all have our duties to bear,” he noted. He moved to sit down next to her, pressing his back, neck, and back of his head against the wall. The catacombs were much darker, and the cool wall felt good on his permanently-soaked-with-sweat skin.

“I suppose that I should apologize too,” she began.

Cullen’s eyes flitted up from the ground, “For what?”

“Chewing you out in front of your men. I shouldn’t undermine your authority like that.”

“Water under the bridge,” he assured.

They sat in comfortable silence for a bit. He smiled to himself, just a little, despite the ache in his head. Just like that—argument forgotten. Once the apologies were distributed, all was right with the world. Ylassa never seemed to hold a grudge. Not against him, anyway.

Cullen’s eyes flicked to the clipboard of documents he left on top of the wall of crates. Cassandra ordered him to take the evening off, but he _really_ did need to read those. He scrambled off of the ground and grabbed the clipboard. “I’ll leave you to it, Herald.”

“You can stay, if you want,” Ylassa offered. “It’s quiet and dark down here, and nobody will bother you for a bit. I know your head hurts.”

He nodded and sat back down, clipboard in hand. The cool stone wall really did feel good on the back of his head. He flipped to the page he had been trying to read earlier, but found it painful to focus on the words for too long. The dim light was probably causing additional eye strain. He felt like his eyeballs were about to vibrate out of his skull.

He slapped the clipboard on top of his knee in frustration before leaning back again, covering his eyes with the crook of his elbow. He let out a long sigh.

“Headache?”

He nodded, silently.

“Want me to read it for you?”

Without uncovering his eyes, he handed the clipboard over to Ylassa with his free hand. She took it in hers, “I’m a very slow reader. Fair warning.”

Cullen chuckled, propping his forearms against his knees and leaning against them, his eyes closed.

Ylassa began, her voice low and soft, barely above a murmur, “ _Commander: The hundred men you sent towards the Storm Coast arrived at the forward camp yesterday morning. The scouts have been reporting both dragon and giant sightings…_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been a *biiiiiiiiiiitch*. We're talking major rewrites, walls of text deleted and restarted, draft upon draft upon draft, and I still haven't come up with something I'm happy with. I'm pretty sure I could write the next Great American Novel and, if it were within the confines of Tied Chapter Five, I would hate it purely out of spite. The next two chapters are practically ready to go, but their publication has, of course, been delayed by this one, so I figured it was time to just send it out in the world and be done with it.
> 
> I promise to get chapter six out by next weekend as thanks for y'all being so supportive.


	6. Meet Me Halfway, Pt. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Inquisition prepares to rescue the mages at Redcliffe. Cullen comes to terms with the depths of his feelings for Ylassa.

“So, what you’re saying is that the vast majority of the mages who broke off from the Circle have been essentially _pledged_ to Tevinter magister, who you all believe to secretly be a member of some sort of dangerous magic _cult_ that has spells that can _control time_? Have I got that right?”

Ylassa stood across the table from Cullen with her newfound friend, a mustachioed Tevinter mage she had met during the mage talks in Redcliffe. The man crossed his arms and weighed Cullen’s statements, “Well when you put it that way, it doesn’t sound all that fun, no.”

 “And these time spells? You know it for certain?”

The mage rolled his eyes, “When Alexius was still my mentor, I helped him with the theoretical machinations of it, and I saw the spell in action with the rift in Redcliffe. So _yes,_ I would say that I’m pretty certain of it.”

Cullen leaned against the table to secretly support himself. His head was _killing_ him today, Andraste preserve him. Cassandra caught his eyes and made a sympathetic look, which he brushed off. “Okay, I don’t like _any_ of this. The only thing worse than mages running wild are mages under Tevinter control. Especially a Tevinter _cult._ ”

Cassandra grunted in agreement.

“So, what are our options here?” Ylassa asked grimly.

“What are our—Seriously, Herald?” Cullen balked at her, suddenly concerned that he had been speaking another language. “We go and _stop_ the _mage cult._ ”

Ylassa’s eyebrows shot up halfway up her forehead, “Just like that, you’re on board?”

Josephine coughed nervously, “Staging a rescue for almost all of the rebel mages in Ferelden and Orlais will likely be seen as a statement of support for the mage rebellion. It would alienate the Templars even further, and most likely stop any attempts to ally with them.”

“And besides,” Cassandra interjected. “Once we free the mages, what in Andraste’s name do we _do_ with them? Hand them a sword and say ‘ _welcome to the Inquisition_ ’?”

“There’s always conscription,” Cullen muttered under his breath.

Ylassa and the Tevinter broke out at the same time in protest. “What? _No._ ” “Are you _mad_?” “My people have been enslaved for ages, and you’re just going to—” “—are you all no better than a _fucking cult_?”

“Okay, okay!” Cullen yelled over them. He tried to hide a wince from the throb of his migraine, but wasn’t sure if he did it successfully. “Fine. Obviously, what to _do_ with the mages is still a hot topic. But are we at least all in agreement that was can’t just let _a cult_ have them? I know the Herald has spoken to me about some ideas for contingency plans if we end up siding with the mages, but…” He rubbed the back of his head. “Frankly, I don’t think we can afford the time to iron those out.”

The whole room nodded. Ylassa piped up, “Right. Whether we have them join, conscript them, set them loose upon the world to practice blood magic and steal children from their cribs—I was kidding about that last one, Cassandra, _breathe_ —we do need to take action. And soon.”

“Not to worry, Dorian to the rescue once again,” the Tevinter exclaimed. He smirked, almost identical to Ylassa’s. “I have a plan.”

             

It was a stupid plan. Something about sending Leliana’s agents through a service entrance. It was dangerous, with too many uncontrollable variables, that didn’t leave a wide opening for reinforcements if things went sideways. Cullen didn’t like too many uncontrollable variables—mitigating them as much as possible was how he stayed alive all these years.

“This is a stupid plan,” Cullen said for what must have been the fifth time in the past hour.

“Your comments are, once again, noted,” Ylassa murmured, her eyes trained on the map of Redcliffe.

“It’s dangerous.”

“Noted.”

“You’ll be completely isolated.”

“Noted.”

“You don’t have to do this.”

Ylassa’s dark eyes snapped up from the map to meet his, “No. I suppose I don’t _have_ to.” Her eyes returned to the map.

 _Stubborn woman._ “We shouldn’t even _think_ of putting you at such a great risk. You are still the only person capable of closing the Breach.”

“Well, it’s a good thing I don’t plan on dying, then.”

Cullen started to massage his temples for the umpteenth time—he lost count of the number as soon as the Tevinter opened his mouth. He popped his eyes open and shot a sideways glance to Cassandra, “Lady Seeker, back me up here?”

Cassandra was leaning against one of the shelves, pensively gnawing at a fingernail—a habit Cullen noticed she did when she was deeply focused or lost in thought, “Herald, ‘not planning on dying’ isn’t exactly an airtight strategy—"

“This plan doesn’t _work_ if I’m not there,” she said simply.

“Then we find another plan,” Cullen said, equally as simply.

“We don’t need to find another plan. This one is _fine_.”

“If you’re going to be taking such a risk,” Cullen said, finally, “I’d prefer if that risk was based on a plan that was better than ‘fine’.”

The words came out of Cullen before he had the presence to tamper them down. ‘ _I’d prefer’._ Not _‘we’d prefer’_. Not _‘The Inquisition prefers’,_ or _‘all of Thedas, who is relying on you prefers_ ’. He had said _‘I’d prefer’._ Damn it. 

If this were a battle, he had just done the equivalent of throwing his sword and shield on the ground and daring her to hit him. And _of course_ she did, because she was Ylassa, and she would be remiss to pull a punch on an open target.

She gave him that wicked smirk, and he braced for impact. “Frankly, Commander, I couldn’t care less what _you’d_ _prefer._ ”

The blow was cushioned only because he had been expecting it. Instead, he rubbed the tired out from under his eyes, “Fine, Herald. Do whatever you want.”

From the side of the room, he could see Cassandra’s eyebrows shoot up, “Commander, do you really think—”

“The Herald believes in this plan. Let her do it. It’s her funeral.”

Ylassa nodded curtly to him before turning to Leliana, “I want these agents hand-picked by you, Leliana.”

“Of course, Herald. Nothing less.”

Ylassa’s back straightened. She was taking to leadership well. “That’s it for now, we’ll continue preparations in the morning. Dismissed.”

Cullen was out of the Chantry before he could blink, his boots crunching through Haven’s freshly-fallen snow. Before he knew it, he was down the various steps and out of the front gate of Have. He halted in his tracks at the foot of the steps.

His teeth chattered a bit in the cold, but he relished the freezing sting on his face from the wind as he stared up into the sky. The Breach was a hazy swirl of greens, blues, and purples in the twilight air. Finally having a few moments to himself for the first time all day, his mind began to wander.

Every Templar in a Circle had a vice or two. If you didn’t, you went crazy—or, well, you went crazy _earlier_ than the Order intended for you to. On the surface, Cullen would say that his vices were drinking too much confiscated alcohol in one sitting, and using the Maker’s name in vain. But the real truth was that Cullen’s vices took a deeper turn than he’d admit.

He had a tendency to fixate on the _exact_ most dangerous woman for him to fixate on. The more catastrophic the potential consequences for acting on his feelings, the better. He never acted on any of those feelings, _thank the Maker,_ but it didn’t make those feelings any less awful for him.

A girl he went through training with. A mage he had to execute, should she have failed her Harrowing. The _fucking Hero of Ferelden…_ And now the Herald of Andraste.

Ylassa was particularly dangerous, and not just because she could control Fade rifts and dual-wield daggers. She _fought back,_ with a barbed tongue that always seemed to know exactly where Cullen’s weak spots were, and she wasn’t afraid to hit them when she needed to. Any conversation with Ylassa, especially in War Meetings, turned into duels without either of them really meaning to, until one of them took things too far and the other would throw their walls up. It seemed that they both had practice doing that.

Then came the simultaneously worst and best part, for Cullen—the apologies, the long talks, the reconciling of differences, and the _emotional vulnerability_ that came with it. The walls around his heart that he would so carefully construct, with the kind of mastery that only came from years of practice, would come tumbling down in an instant.

The next day, the cycle would begin again.

When he craved her presence, she would distance herself. When he needed space to clear his head, there she would be. Cullen didn’t think she did it intentionally—Ylassa was far too kindhearted for that—but she played his heart like a damn fiddle. They played hot and cold with each other, only being on when the other was off. It was infuriating. Cullen _loved_ it.

This was not some latent Circle infatuation brought on by an idle mind running away with fantasies of the taboo. Those he could easily solve by finding a consenting Templar trying to escape her own problems and fucking her brains out.

No, Cullen’s problem was that he actually _liked_ Ylassa. Had they met in another lifetime—one free of holes in the sky spewing demons, and Mage-Templar conflicts—they might have been friends, maybe even _more._ Ylassa was reckless enough to keep things interesting, and he was just cautious enough to keep her from getting killed.

There was the underlying attraction to her, sure, and sometimes the chemistry between them felt almost _palpable._ But mostly, he just didn’t mind her company. She was capable, unafraid to use people’s tendencies to underestimate her to her advantage. And anyone who knew Ylassa for more than five minutes could tell that she was a fiercely loyal friend who was unafraid to give you the shirt off her back. She was, by all accounts, a formidable opponent and an even more formidable ally.

 _Oh Andraste’s tits, he was falling in love with her, wasn’t he?_ The realization hit him like a rock to the head, and he rubbed at his face with his hands. _Cullen Stanton Rutherford, you colossal idiot._

“Commander?”

Turning his head over his shoulder, he watched Ylassa come down the last few steps outside of the gate and stand by his side. He subconsciously felt his guard go up. This was the emotional vulnerability part of the cycle—the part he both craved and feared.

“Herald,” he greeted. “Didn’t expect to see you out here.”

“I could say the same. What are you doing out here?”

“Gathering my thoughts,” he replied. It wasn’t a lie.

“Well, you seemed a bit upset after the War Meeting. I figured I should come find you.”

He tried not to be moved by her concern. “I’m not apologizing, Herald.”

“Not saying you have to. I’m not apologizing either.”

“Good. Glad that’s settled.”

He heard her scoff, and shake her head out of the corner of his eye. She was quiet for a few moments, before she asked, “Do you think we ruined everything?”

Cullen turned his head to fully look at her, “I’m not quite sure what you mean.”

“You know…” Ylassa tucked an errant strand of hair behind one of her ears, and Cullen noted that it’s one of the new times he’s seen her look obviously discomforted by a conversation. “ _Meeting_ the way we did. Do you think that we ruined our chances to be _normal_ with each other? To have a professional working relationship, to be friends?”

Cullen’s head snapped straight ahead as he felt a slight blush rise into his cheeks. He hoped that she’d assume the blush stemmed from the cold night air—the tip of her own nose was already turning pink. He rubbed at the back of his neck, “Uh… Oh, _Maker_. I thought we agreed to pretend that never happened.”

“We did. But if you ask me, we’re doing a shitty job of it.”

Cullen snorted, because he had to agree with her on that.

“I don’t think we ‘ruined everything’, per se,” he said, finally. “I do think we’ve made things incredibly difficult on ourselves.”

Ylassa hummed in agreement.

“A few days ago, you told me to pick whether I wanted to be your friend or your adversary. I’d like to be your friend, Lassa, really. And as your friend, I refuse to see you treat your own life so flippantly over a _time cult_. I could say that’s because you’re the Herald of Andraste, that you’re too important, that all of Thedas is counting on you—but that’s only half of the truth.”

“What’s the other half of the truth, if I may ask?” A small smile tugged on Ylassa’s lips.

“That you are one of the most incredible people that I have ever met. And I can only begin to imagine the unstoppable force that you will become by the time all of this is done.”

Ylassa was clearly blushing now, but that would make two of them. She chuckled nervously, “You’re not so bad yourself.” Another few moments of silence. “For the record, I’m not _actually_ treating my life so flippantly. I can be a little reckless at times, sure, but… It’s just my own way of dealing with things, I guess. Emotional detachment.”

Cullen admired her honesty.

She sighed, satisfied with the conversation. “I’ll leave you be. I’ve got some preparations for Redcliffe that I need to attend to.”

As she turned to leave, Cullen stopped her with a hand on her shoulder, “Promise me that you’ll be careful when you leave?”

“I can’t promise that.”

“Can you promise you’ll _try_?”

She considered it for a moment. “I think I can do that.”

“Thank you. Good night, Lassa.”

“Night.” She headed up the stairs, but stopped halfway to look back at him, “You know what, Cullen? I rather like the story behind how we met. I don’t think I’d change it for the world.” She shoved her hands into the pockets of her coat. “Not saying I’m going to go around announcing it, or anything. But maybe we shouldn’t pretend it never happened. Maybe we’re just making things harder on ourselves.” Not waiting for his response, Ylassa made her way through the front gate and into Haven.

Cullen groaned to himself and rubbed under his eyes. That was about the _worst_ thing for his feelings she could have said to him in that moment. Here he was, trying to rebuild his walls, and she had managed, in under five minutes, to knock them down and dig her claws further into him. She may as well have shoved a stake into his heart.

The question of whether he was falling for Ylassa was no longer a question to him. He _was_. And that terrified him.

He returned his gaze to the stars above Haven, and to the Breach, thinking that if _anyone_ was capable of getting that thing closed, it was Ylassa Lavellan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Public Service Announcement from your Author: Migraines are a bitch.
> 
> This has been a public service announcement from your author.
> 
> (But hey, this chapter is completed in a way that makes me happy, and only two days after the deadline I imposed on myself. Take your victories where they can.)
> 
> As always, your kudos and comments mean the world to me.


	7. Silenced

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post-"In Hushed Whispers". Ylassa talks a bit about her past, and why she cares so much about mages. Cullen gets a bright idea (spoiler alert: it isn't a bright idea). A wild Solas appears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Taken some liberties with Templar abilities, and how the Anchor works.

Cullen finished reading the report that the Herald had sent to him.

Actually, Ylassa still didn’t write her own reports due to her illiteracy. And due to what could only be described as ‘time shenanigans’, Cassandra _also_ couldn’t write the full report, because she didn’t remember any of what happened. That left Dorian, the only other person to witness the whole event and remember it, and his report was full of personal interjections about how good his mustache looked while understating the important things, like fighting off Venatori agents and encountering something called the _fucking ‘Elder One’_.

He gradually laid his head on the war table, more out of exasperation than exhaustion, almost relishing the way that the _thud!_ of his head on the table added to his now persistent headache.

“Burning the midnight oil, Commander?”

Cullen raised his head from the table to see Ylassa in the doorway, dressed in casual clothes and a shawl wrapped around her shoulders. Her dark hair was out of its usual updo, slightly messy from sleep and stopping just above her shoulders. Cullen didn’t think he’d ever seen Ylassa with her hair down.

He waved the report in his hand, “Have you seen this report that Dorian wrote? Two paragraphs about his mustache, and two sentences about someone literally called _‘The Elder One’_.”

The corner of her mouth lifted, “That’s a bit of an exaggeration, don’t you think?”

“The point still stands.”

She made her way into the room, her boots _clomp-_ ing on the stone tiles as she made her way to the war table. She sat near him on the edge of the table, her arms crossed so tightly that she was practically hugging herself. “Believe me, if we had more information about this ‘ _Elder One’_ —” she practically spat out the name, “—we would have included it. Two sentences are all the information that we have right now.” She sighed, “And I don’t like that.”

Cullen unceremoniously tossed the report onto the table and leaned back in his chair, “I don’t like it either.”

“So, what do we do now?” Ylassa stifled a yawn, pressing the back of her hand to her mouth.

Cullen noted that her left hand, usually covered with a glove or bandage regardless of the time of day or whether she was outside or not, was uncovered. A chunk at the center of her palm was a glittering green, while the skin outside of the mark was slightly charred. Veins of dark green, reminiscent of the color of her _vallaslin,_ although not an exact match, snaked their way up her wrist.

Cullen averted his gaze, hoping that Ylassa hadn’t caught him staring at the mark. _Probably why she usually keeps it covered,_ he thought. He focused his eyes on her face. “Right now, we try to gather all of the information we can, and try to figure out how to even _begin_ to make this mage alliance work.”

She shifted uncomfortably, “Right…”

Cullen sighed and rubbed the back of his head, “I apologize. I did not mean to make it sound like I was second-guessing your decision.”

Ylassa chuckled quietly, staring at her feet, her arms still crossed. “You’d have to be crazy not to. I certainly could have made a less troublesome decision for the Inquisition.”

Cullen tried not to make it seem like he agreed with her statement. He stood up from his chair and moved to the War Table, sitting next to her on the edge of the table, close enough so that their shoulders were slightly touching. “When we made the decision to prioritize rescuing the mages, we left the decision of what to do afterwards up to you.”

“I made what I believed to be the best decision. I hope you know that.”

“I do.” Cullen leaned slightly to the side so that his shoulder pressed up against hers reassuringly, “You did good.”

Ylassa beamed. When Cullen moved his shoulder back, she leaned over to mimic his gesture for a brief second. “I just…”

“What?”

“Never mind.”

Cullen raised his eyebrow at her expectantly, and she huffed.

“I mean… I’ve mentioned my family to you before, right?”

He thought about it, “I think so, yeah. Once. When we…” Cullen’s cheeks turned a vivid pink at the recollection of their meeting, “Yes. Your father was your clan’s mage.”

Ylassa shrugged, “I don’t really like to use ‘mage’, because that implies Circle training, but yes. My _papae_ was Keeper, as was my sister after him. My mother and brother were both magic users as well.”

“ _Maker_.” Cullen pinched the bridge of his nose, nursing his headache.

“Everything all right?”

“Fine,” he lied. “Just… the past month of War Council meetings has suddenly begun to make a great deal of sense.”

Ylassa smirked, “Now you get it?”

“Now I get it,” he echoed.

Ylassa’s smirk fell, and she focused on the floor, “All I can think about is… Well…”

Cullen pressed his shoulder into hers again.

“I’m the only one in my family without any magical abilities. Or, well, I _was_ ,” she flexed her left hand. “So, when it came time to pick a side in this, I asked myself, _‘what if that was your parents out there? Or your brother or sister?’_ ”

“And? What was the answer?”

“Anything short of offering them free agency was not something that would have rested well with me.” She paused. “Does that make me a bad leader?”

Cullen mused on that momentarily. “No,” he finally decided. “Guiding by your morals is not a _bad_ idea. Just a bit… idealistic. There’s not always a decision that’s going to rest well with yourself.”

“This one _barely_ does as it is,” she answered. She reached up to rub the tiredness from her eyes, and this time she caught Cullen staring at the mark. One of her eyebrows rose in his direction.

“Sorry,” he mumbled sheepishly. He could imagine the chastising he’d get from his mother for staring, were she still alive.

“It’s fine,” Ylassa replied coolly, the hand resting on her knee. “It spread a little, and it charred the skin around it. I have to leave it uncovered while the skin heals.”

“It spread?” Cullen’s brow furrowed in concern. “Are you all right?”

She brushed the concern off, “Some of the wards Solas constructed around it broke down, so he had to add a new layer to them. It’s stopped spreading now.”

“I didn’t know the mark was so…” he trailed off. “ _Dangerous_ for you, I suppose.”

“Cullen, this thing, to quote Solas, is ‘an untamed, high-energy magical anomaly with a lot of unknown variables’. _Of course_ it’s dangerous.”

“You almost sound like a Templar.”

She scoffed in mild disgust, “ _You_ try having a positive attitude when this thing is slowly eating away at your hand. I used to have _beautiful_ hands. Now I just have beautiful _hand_ , singular. The other hand is trying to kill me.”

“I just… don’t think I’ve ever seen it. You always keep it hidden.”

“To _keep people from staring_ ,” she said, a pointed jab at Cullen’s expense. “I feel less like a person and more like a dog that people expect to perform tricks.”

“Maybe you’ll find that, eventually, the people around you will get accustomed to it,” Cullen mused. “They can’t get accustomed to what they’ve never observed.”

Ylassa was silent for a bit, before she let out a soft, “… Huh.”

“May I?” He asked, offering his hand towards hers.

Hesitantly, she lifted the hand wielding the mark off of her knee and placed it, gingerly, into his hand.

Cullen cradled her hand in the tips of his fingers, observing what almost looked like a glittering green emerald in Ylassa’s hand, with a ring of black-charred skin around it. He could feel the magical energy coming from it, bouncing off of the wards containing it with such ferocity that her hand almost seemed to _vibrate._ Whatever lyrium remaining in his blood sang and twitched and the magical presence. “Does it hurt?” he asked.

She gave another noncommittal shrug, “The wards help. It’s more of a dull ache at this point. I’m used to it.”

Cullen scoffed.

“What?”

“The hypocrisy of your statement. You’ve been telling me that I don’t have to brush off my symptoms of lyrium withdrawal around you, and yet you don’t feel like you can turn around and do the same with me. You’re the Herald, not a martyr.”

Ylassa seemed almost surprised with the bluntness of his statement, and Cullen hoped he hadn’t crossed a line and said something wrong _yet again_. Finally, she took a deep, stuttering inhale, “It seems more and more likely that I will be one, before all of this is through.”

Cullen nodded, dumbly. He understood—Void, he _resonated_ with that feeling.

“I woke up this morning to my hand literally being burned off,” she said, almost a whisper. “So, yeah, it hurts pretty fucking bad right now. I tried to go to sleep and I just… couldn’t. It hurt too much.”

“Did the healers give you anything for it?”

“Elfroot salve.”

“That’s _it_? That’s all they gave you?”

He could feel the mark thrum, and Ylassa winced for a moment. “For the charred skin. The mark hasn’t responded to magical attempts to heal it. Whatever magic it’s putting out, it’s stronger than any magic trying to reverse or contain it. Even the wards require upkeep every week or so to keep it from spreading further.”

By now, the magical energy coming from her hand was causing Cullen’s whole arm to tingle, as if it had fallen asleep. He hadn’t been sure if there was any lyrium still in his blood, but he knew now that there _had_ to be, because it was going wild _._ _That gave him an idea…_ “Can I try to Silence it?”

Her head snapped to look at him, surprised by the question. “… Can you even do that? Not being on lyrium?”

He thought about it for a second, “I’m not sure. I haven’t met anybody who’s gone off lyrium, and I haven’t tried to use any of my Templar abilities since I stopped taking it. But I’m willing to find out if you’re willing to find out.”

Ylassa thought about it for a second before nodding, hesitantly. “All right.”

“This might feel unpleasant, but only for a few seconds. You can tell me if you want to stop.” He waited for Ylassa to give another slow nod before he clasped the mark between both of his hands and closed his eyes.

With a deep breath, he tried to focus on the magical energy almost vibrating between his hands, which was easy because it was doing the magical equivalent of _screaming_. Another deep breath, and he tried to push at it, interrupt it, smother it, _anything_. For a moment, he thought that maybe he didn’t have the ability to Silence anymore, until suddenly the energy of the mark gave way and the energy from his Silence pushed through, like he had been pushing against a door that suddenly opened inward.

Ylassa let out a choking gasp, the air in her throat no longer coming or going from her lungs. Various muscles of her body twitched involuntarily as the mana running through her veins, put there by the mark, was depleted—he could almost detect the course the Silence was taking from the movement of her muscle twitches. Finally, everything in her became still, and Ylassa gasped for air, coughing on the next few exhalations.

“ _Sorry… Sorry…_ ” Cullen apologized over and over. One of his hands let go of hers to rub between her shoulder blades.

“ _Creators… Fuck!”_ Ylassa lifted her hand to look at the mark. Already, the glittering emeralds in her hand seemed to have become duller—they no longer emitted their own light, they only reflected the light from the lantern in the room. She exhaled again, still shaky, and flexed her hand tentatively. “Cullen… I don’t feel it.” She turned to look at him, her eyes wide and grin full-blown, “I don’t feel it!” Hot tears of relief began to prick at her eyes.

“I can’t believe that _worked_.” Cullen himself felt drained from using his abilities. They certainly weren’t what they used to be since he stopped taking lyrium, that was for sure.

They both sat next to each other on the edge of the war table, their shoulders barely touching, breathing heavily from the exertion of Silencing and being Silenced. A passerby walking by the room might assume that they had just fucked.

Ylassa’s head suddenly drooped, and she rubbed at her eyes with her other hand. Cullen couldn’t tell if she was laughing or crying. Maybe a bit of both. “Thank you. _Thankyouthankyouthankyou._ ”

“Any time.” Despite the exertion of Silencing it, and the exhaustion creeping into the back of his skull, he meant it. She could snap her fingers and he’d run to her.

“Oh, Creators, it feels so nice to—”

Her sentence caught on a howling screech from the depths of her lungs as the mark flared back to life, much brighter than earlier as it pushed through the Silence. She looked down at her hand and let out a string of expletives, “The wards— _fuck!—_ the wards. The Silence killed the wards.”

 _Shit._ He had not thought of that. A string of expletives tumbled from his mouth to join hers as the smell of burning flesh hit his nostrils. The mark was spreading again.

She howled again, “ _Fuck!”_

“Come on, we need to get you to Solas.” He hopped off of the table and grabbed her other arm, wrapping it around his shoulder. “Put your weight on me,” he instructed, and she obliged. They hobbled out of the Chantry, making it almost to Adan’s cottage before the mark flared again.

Ylassa’s knees buckled and she fell like a stone. Getting up on her hands and knees, she scrambled to the edge of a snowbank and stuck her hand in it. The snow began to melt immediately as steam rose from the hole her hand made. “ _Fuck!_ ” She swore again.

“Okay, okay. Stay right there, I’m going to get him.” Cullen practically flew across the courtyard to Solas’ cottage and banged on the door as hard as he could. He stepped back to peer through the window and saw some sort of light source glowing faintly, maybe a lantern or a magelight. _Thank the Maker._

Solas answered the door too quickly have been sleeping, although he did look irritated at being disturbed. “Yes, Commander?” he asked, his face neutral but his voice dripping with vitriol.

Ylassa yelled again, and Solas’ head tilted so that he was looking just above Cullen’s shoulder into the distance of the courtyard. “Herald?” he called. Another yell, and Solas pushed past Cullen without another word.

Cullen felt the familiar thrum of magic as Solas actually _disappeared_ , before reappearing across the courtyard. He had Fade-stepped right to the Herald, bending down and reaching for her hand.

Solas was examining the mark as Cullen trudged across the courtyard over to them. The elf muttered to himself as he turned her hand over. Finally, he spoke, “The wards are completely gone. That shouldn’t be possible,” he stated as a matter of fact. “And the mark is growing in size, too.”

“We know that the mark is getting stronger, right?” Ylassa asked, through gritted teeth.

“Yes, but… Not this quickly. There should have been deterioration in the wards first, like there was this morning when you came to me.” Solas began to work on casting wards back onto the mark. “I doubt that the mark has gotten so strong that it could burst through wards out of nowhere. Not in less than a day.” Solas looked at Ylassa, then at Cullen, before returning back to the mark “Walk me through what happened.”

Cullen opened his mouth to tell the truth, but Ylassa spoke up first, “I was asleep, in my room, and it woke me up. The pain was excruciating, and I smelled burning flesh, so I rushed to your cottage. It flared again and I collapsed. The Commander stumbled upon me and said that he would get you. That’s all there is.”

Cullen was borderline impressed with her ability to build a convincing story under duress. In another life, were she not the Herald, she could have made quite a name for herself as an agent of Leliana’s.

Solas turned his attention to Cullen without actually looking away from Ylassa’s hand, “Commander, is this so?”

Cullen caught Ylassa’s eyes for a moment. She was clearly in pain, and _he_ had done it to her, albeit with only good intentions. And yet there she was, covering for him. All the same, he felt that informing Solas of the situation would be the fastest route to making her pain cease as quickly as possible. “Actually… No. I’m afraid that I had the idea of trying to use Silence on the mark.”

Solas’ head snapped up in his direction. “You did _what_?” he barked in a commanding voice that Cullen didn’t even know that he possessed. His face, usually a blank slate of serenity, was practically cut in half by the deep scowl of his brow.

Ylassa winced, but Cullen wasn’t sure if it was from pain, or the fact that Cullen had purposefully placed himself into the mage’s warpath.  He continued, “The mark is essentially condensed magical energy, right? I thought that trying to Silence it might bring the Herald some temporary relief. The fact that it would also affect the wards that you set up to help contain it had not occurred to me.”

“ _Of course_ it didn’t occur to you, Commander.” Solas’ voice dripped with disdain as he went back to work on the mark. “And Herald, you just… You just _let him_?”

Ylassa took in a stuttering breath. “I just wanted the pain to _stop_.” The last word caught on a sob.

“Oh, _da’len_ …” Solas’ face did not soften, but his voice did. “Of course.” Being a self-proclaimed Scholar of the Fade, curiosity got the better of him. “… Did it _work_?”

“For about a minute,” she answered. “Before it flared back up again, without the wards to contain it.”

“Interesting… _No_.” The anger returned to his voice, “What you two did was irresponsible and dangerous. You should not be experimenting on the mark, _period._ Especially not without me, or a healer, or who knows what they’re doing around in case things go sideways. _Which they did_.”

The blustering and scolding from the mage did little to phase Cullen. “She was in pain,” Cullen replied curtly. “What the fuck have you been doing about it?”

Ylassa’s eyebrows shot halfway up her forehead as she bit down on a laugh.

Solas remained steadfast. In fact, the scowl on his face somehow _deepened_. “The mark is high energy, and does not respond to magic in typical ways, Commander. I have been doing exactly what can be done for her, which is to keep this mark from spreading and consuming more of her. And I am sorry that I cannot do more. But what you two did was _dangerous_. It could have gotten you _killed_ , Herald. And then where would we be?”

The silence weighed heavy on her and Cullen, and it seemed to have spoken volumes to Solas. Having had enough of the distractions, he returned to casting wards. “How does it feel now, Herald?”

“Much better, thank you,” she replied, her tone icy.

“I think that it’s contained,” her said finally, after a few more minutes of tense silence. “Flex your hand for me.”

She did so, and hissed through her teeth.

“The mark spread out a bit, and took quite a bit of the skin surrounding it with it. I don’t know the extent of the damage, yet, but it will probably be painful to move for a few days. Keep it clean, air it out whenever possible, and keep applying that elfroot salve that Adan gave you. Come back in the morning, and I’ll add another layer of wards.” He gingerly released Ylassa’s hand, “I am sorry that there isn’t much we can do for the pain, and I wish that you had told me of it sooner. Perhaps in the morning, we can go to Adan and see if he has any ideas for potions that may help.”

Ylassa blinked back tears and nodded, dumbly.

Solas stood up, “ _Never_ do something so irresponsible with the mark again. Is that clear?”

He waited for both of them to nod, and Cullen’s schoolboy days flashed before his eyes.

“ _Silencing the mark…_ ” the mage murmured to himself. Then, aloud, “I don’t know how that thought never occurred to me. Good night, the two of you. Or morning, as it were.” The elf padded away on his bare feet and disappeared into his cottage without another word.

“I hate him,” Ylassa said after a few silent moments, still kneeling on the cold, snowy stones of the courtyard. “I really, really hate him.”

Cullen looked down at her, “I know.”

She reached her right hand up to him until he helped her up. “I’m exhausted.”

Cullen was quite drained himself, but figured that he didn’t have the right to complain compared to what Ylassa went through. “Lassa… I am _so sorry_.”

“Don’t be. You were just trying to help.”

“I could have _hurt you_. I mean, I _did_ hurt you, but I could have _really_ hurt you, and—” a vomit of words was coming out at this point, and he was staring at his shoes, “—and I can’t stand the thought that I hurt you.”

“Cullen, look at me.” He did so, and she continued, “I am fine. I am not upset at you—”

“—why didn’t I think about the _fucking wards_?”

“ _Hey_. Neither of us thought about the fucking wards, okay? We’re both at fault here. Stop being so hard on yourself.”

“Ylassa, I hurt you—”

“At least you fucking tried something. What’s Solas done? _Nothing_. Cullen, I am not upset at you. I won’t see you be upset at yourself.” She closed her eyes and sighed, “Walk me back to my cabin, will you?”

He had thought that Ylassa just wanted company, but she threw her arm around his shoulder and leaned some of her weight onto him. _Of course,_ Cullen thought, _she must be exhausted._ Pushing aside his own tiredness, they began to walk across Haven.

“Is Solas going to be mad at you for lying to him?”

“Eh. Probably.” She seemed rather flippant about it.

“I’d hate for you to put a strain on your friendship with the Fade scholar on my account.”

Ylassa scoffed, “ _Please_. If he hasn’t strangled me by now, he probably never will. He and my sister would get along, actually.”

“I’m guessing that’s not a good thing?” Cullen asked, pausing to adjust Ylassa’s arm around his shoulder.

She chuckled to herself, “No, it isn’t.”

“What was it he called you earlier? _Doll-something_?”

“ _Da’len_ ,” she corrected. “It means ‘child’.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Who the fuck does _he_ think he is?”

They had crossed Haven and reached one of the stairways, which they descended about half of with some struggling. Ylassa’s knees were beginning to give out. “Hang on,” he muttered. He swept her legs up, quickly carrying her down the last few steps and placing her back down on the ground.

Ylassa chuckled weakly as thanks.

It was only a few more steps to her cabin, which they spent in silence. “Great. I’m going to pass out now. Thank you.” Ylassa opened the door, pausing awkwardly, unsure of how to depart.

They were a bit too familiar with each other to depart on a handshake, but not familiar enough for a hug, although Ylassa probably needed one. Cullen finally settled for gently patting her twice on the top of her head. It was somehow even _more_ awkward, and he felt himself blush.

She arched an eyebrow at him, “Really?”

“I don’t know,” he muttered. “Sleep well, Lassa.” He departed immediately, making an immediate beeline for his tent. He opened the flap, crossed to his cot, and collapsed face-first upon it, not bothering to remove his boots.

Sleep came quickly, and as a blessing from the Maker himself, Cullen did not dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I HAVE BEEN WAITING. FOR US TO GET TO THIS CHAPTER. FUCK. YES. 
> 
> Also, I love y'all. Every time someone leaves a nice comment, it adds about five years to my life.


	8. Yearning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The infamous conversation happens. You know the one. Cullen pines some more.
> 
> *new character alert* Hope you like Fade spirits!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another one of those chapters that I struggled with and re-wrote a dozen times (I need a damn Beta reader). But I got inspired, and I'm really happy with where this goes and what is introduced. It got so crazy I decided to make it a two-parter.
> 
> Here goes nothing.

“Commander,” Ylassa greeted Cullen the next morning, while he was supervising his troops during a training exercise.

“Herald,” he greeted back, unable to fight a small smile on his face at her presence. “Maker, how’s your hand?” Even the next morning, Cullen couldn’t quite shake the smell of burning flesh from his nostrils.

“Oh, that?” she shrugged it off. “Fine.”

Cullen arched an eyebrow and stared her down, reminding her of their conversation the night before. _‘You’re the Herald’,_ he had told her, _‘not a martyr’._

She internally buckled. “Stings like a bitch, but Solas says it’s stable. Also, I kind of had it coming for being a dumbass. It’s a wash.”

Cullen chuckled, “Fair enough. Come to observe the troops?”

A few soldiers nearby looked at the two of them apprehensively. After all, the last time Ylassa had approached him in the training yard, they had gotten into an argument and Ylassa had almost tore his head off. Cullen glared at the soldiers until they resumed their training.

“Actually, just checking in to see if you ate breakfast today.”

He was a bit taken by surprise with her concern. “Actually, I…” he thought about it for a second. “No, I suppose I haven’t.”

“Figured as much,” she replied, pulling an apple out of her knapsack and offering it to him. She pulled another apple out for herself and gingerly placed the knapsack on the ground.

Cullen sunk his teeth into the green apple. The sour taste and mealy texture almost made him wince—it was hard to get fresh produce to the Frostbacks. But still, he hadn’t realized how hungry he was until the first bite, and he took another, much larger bite immediately following the first one.

She chuckled a bit, watching him, “I get the feeling that when I told you to take care of yourself, you didn’t take it to heart.”

“No, I did. It’s just…” He exhaled, thinking of the words. “It’s easy to get swept up in the commotion of it all. I woke up, thought about breakfast. A messenger came in with a letter. I told myself I’d get breakfast after I finished penning the response. By the time I finished _that,_ I realized that I was late for the morning’s training exercises. And so on. It’s easy to lose track of time.”

Ylassa arched an eyebrow at him, “Do I need to follow you around, make sure you eat three squares a day?” She bit into her apple, not wincing as much as he did, but still not looking pleased with their produce supply either.

He scoffed, unsure if she was actually serious or not, “No. But I do appreciate the breakfast all the same.”

“Ah, well, you’re welcome. Although I did have an ulterior motive today.”

“With you, that can’t be anything good.”

Ylassa smirked, “Oh, calm down. I just needed to ask you some questions.”

“About…?” He pressed.

She bit into her apple again, taking her time chewing and swallowing the bite before continuing, “Templar… stuff.”

“ _Templar stuff_ ,” Cullen repeated. It was his turn to arch an eyebrow at her, “You want to ask me about ‘Templar stuff’ _now_?”

“Commander, we just accepted hundreds of mages into our ranks, and they’ll be here in a couple of days. This is _exactly_ the time to be asking about Templar stuff.” She sunk her teeth into her own apple.

“Fine, fine. What do you want to know?”

“Hmm…” she began. “I don’t know. Just walk me through a typical day in the life of a Templar, I guess?”

And so Cullen did, although he explained that _‘a day in the life of a Templar’_ was a pretty vague prompt. Not all Templars had the same duties, he explained, but he at least walked through a day in his own life before Kirkwall went to shit. Of course, given Ylassa’s inexperience with Templar 'stuff', that led to them getting sidetracked with other discussions—lyrium usage, the origin of the Order, phylacteries, Templar training, the _vows—_

“So you all have vows, then?” she asked, taking another bite out of her breakfast. “ _’I swear to the Maker to watch over all mages’_ , shit like that?”

He chuckled, “Not necessarily ‘ _shit like that_ ’, but sure. There’s a vigil. You’re meant to be at peace during that time, but your life _is_ about to change. When it’s over, you give yourself to a life of service—” he said this almost wistfully, with a twinge of sadness over the life he no longer led, “—and that’s when you’re given a philter. Your first draught of lyrium, and its power.”

Ylassa nodded to show that she was still listening, her dark eyes bright and engaging. Cullen couldn’t bring himself to break their gaze even if he wanted to.

He continued, “As Templars, we are not to seek wealth or acknowledgement. Our lives belong to the Maker, and the path we have chosen.” _A life that I no longer live,_ he thought, a bit sadly. _A purpose I no longer hold._

Her eyes grew a bit sad, as if she was detecting his own. “Seems a bit idealistic,” she mused.

“Perhaps. You’ve never struck me as an idealist.”

“Perhaps not.” She worried at her lower lip with her teeth in thought. “A life of service and sacrifice. Are Templars expected to give up… _physical temptations?_ ” she asked with a smirk.

_Was she…?_ “Physical? Why would you—” Cullen suddenly grew very warm under his armor as his face flushed. He tried to give a professional answer, “That’s, uh… That’s not expected. Templars _can_ marry—although there are, uh… _rules_ around it, and the Order must grant permission, and, uh—”

He had unraveled under Ylassa’s gaze, which was _ridiculous,_ considering she wasn’t even looking at him in any particular scandalous way. But _Maker,_ if he wasn’t a sucker for brown eyes—under hers, he had turned into a stuttering mess before he even really knew what he was doing. “Some may choose to give up more—to prove their devotion, but it’s not— _ahem._ It’s, uh, not required.” He finished his rambling by looking down at his feet. Suddenly unsure of what to do with his hands, he took another bite of apple.

Ylassa chuckled, amused that she had struck a nerve. In many ways, having a conversation with Ylassa was like having a conversation with a predator waiting to pounce on its prey at any moment. “Have _you_?”

“ _Me?”_ Cullen practically squeaked. “Uh, no. I, uh… I’ve taken no such vow—” He choked on his bite of apple, descending into a fit of coughing that had taken Ylassa from looking amused to concerned. She pounded helplessly between his shoulder blades as he hacked away, the blockage in his throat cleared but still raw.

“Creators, Cullen, are you all right?” she asked when he had finally righted himself. “Sorry, I was just, uh—I was just messing with you, sorry.”

He waved her off, suffocating another cough, “It’s, uh—it’s fine. _Maker,_ can we please speak of something else?”

“Yes, of course.” A laugh had bubbled out of her chest before she had the presence to stop it, although one of her hands did fly to cover her mouth.

He chuckled, weakly, in response. Then, before he could shut up, he simply said, “You have a beautiful laugh.”

_“Oh!_ ” Ylassa squeaked, a slight flush coming to her cheeks as she clamped her hand over her mouth. “Uh. Thank you, Cullen.”

They stood in silence for a moment, both slightly mortified. Cullen noticed that they had caught the attention of Rylen, who had been watching curiously for a few moments. He shooed Rylen away with a few flicks of his eyes in the opposite direction.

“Maybe, uh… Maybe I should go?” Ylassa asked weakly. “Unless there was something else you needed, I, uh…”

“Uh, no. No. You can, uh—That is, if you _want_ to—” He sighed, certain that he wasn’t going to be able to get a full sentence out in front of her for the rest of the day, “Thank you. Uh, for breakfast.” He cleared his throat nervously.

“Yes. And thank _you_ for the Templar talk.”

“Excellent.” He looked off to the side at nothing in particular.

Ylassa laughed again, only this time her laughter rang out. It rattled around in his head like a bell tower, and his heart practically jumped into his throat. Her laughter really _was_ something else.

She shook her head, half-amused and half-bewildered. “Bye, Commander.” She turned on her heel and headed back towards Haven, still shaking her head slightly.

Cullen watched her ascend the steps to the gates. Halfway up, she turned back around to look at him, catching his eye. She smirked a little, but Cullen immediately averted his gaze, turning back towards the training yard.

“Commander?” Rylen, who had popped up by his side at some point while he watched Ylassa depart.

He regarded Rylen with a quick side-eye, but nothing more.

“Report for you, ser.” He held the report out in front of Cullen.

“Thank you,” the Commander grumbled back.

“The Herald’s an odd one, isn’t she?” he noted as Cullen took the clipboard.

“I suppose.”

“I rather don’t mind it, though. Never a dull day with her in charge,” he added, rather pointedly in Cullen’s direction.

Whatever Rylen was trying to imply, he wasn’t in the mood for any of it. “Is there something you need, Rylen? You’ve already delivered the report.”

Rylen chuckled oddly, “No, I suppose not.”

“Then, dismissed.”

Snickering to himself, Rylen saluted the Commander and headed off to Maker-knows where. Cullen rolled his eyes and began scanning the report, allowing the wave of words to roll over him and preoccupy his mind.

The morning dragged its way into the afternoon. Much to Cullen’s chagrin, every once in a while, he would bump into Ylassa somewhere and he would be unable to focus on whatever task was at hand. Haven was suddenly very small when you wanted to avoid someone.

_Stop that,_ he chastised himself for the umpteenth time after spotting her chatting with Solas on the lower level of Haven. She waved at him, and he waved back. Solas sent him a peculiar look that he ignored.

_Stop that,_ he said to himself again half an hour later upon seeing her in the Chantry sitting on the floor and braiding Josephine's hair, which caused him to grin. Josephine waved to him as he passed but Ylassa, whose hands were preoccupied with the Lady Ambassador's hair, simply sent him another one of those crooked grins.

Sometime later, he heard Sera call out for Ylassa and he frantically spun his head around to look for her. Wherever Ylassa happened to be, she wasn't within his line of sight, but his heart still jumped into his throat all the same. _Stop that._

_Stop. That._ He ordered himself upon catching himself absent-mindedly doodling in the margins or a report while think about Ylassa’s brown eyes and crooked grin.

Having had enough of that for the day, Cullen resigned to spend the rest of the evening reading reports and doing paperwork in his own tent, finally leaving for the kitchens to snag some dinner well after the sun had set.

Not feeling particularly hungry but knowing that he should eat, he grabbed a few slices of white bread and a hunk of cheese from the kitchens. It was a fairly mild evening by Frostback standards, so he chose to wipe a layer of fresh snow off of the steps by the tavern so he could sit and enjoy the fresh air. It was approaching the end of Harvestmere, and soon winter would be upon them with a vengeance. The Inquisition would not get many more nights like this for a while.

 He sat on the steps for a time, slowly making his way through his bread and cheese and absorbing the night air and the light and sounds from the Singing Maiden behind him. For a short time, his mind was blank. Considering that there was a hole in the sky spouting demons not too far from him, it was a blessing.

Having finished with his meal, he stood up, dusted himself off, and made his way across Haven and back to his tent. Along the way, he passed by Ylassa's cabin, noting an orange light, probably from a candle, that spilled through the window. He kept walking down the levels and towards his tent.

Yes, the day had been long, and a bit awkward. But it was at least somewhat productive—despite the _several_ distractions Ylassa Lavellan posed. His stomach was full and not reeling, his head didn’t hurt too bad. All in all, a somewhat pleasant day by Inquisition standards. Maybe he could catch a few hours of sleep tonight, instead of the usual hour-long fits that peppered between nightmares and physical anguish.

The idea of actually getting a good night of sleep was appealing to him. There was _paperwork_ to do, but there was always paperwork to do. He could hear Ylassa and Cassandra nagging him in the back of his mind—something about not being able to be a good Commander if he didn’t try to take care of himself.

Sleep it was, then. He arrived at his tent, pulling back the flap and entering. The lantern he had lit earlier on his desk had gone out, and he internally chastised himself for leaving an unsupervised lantern on a desk covered with papers and books. The last thing the Inquisition needed was a metaphorical fire to put out in addition to their metaphorical ones.

He set to work untying his boots, shrugging off his coat, returning his armor to its rack. Getting undressed was an effort in and of itself. He finally laid down on the cot and let his mind wander. And his mind wandered to Ylassa—because _of course_ it did. Maker, he really had to do something about this.

He thought about that night in the tavern—the young elf woman who threw herself into scrapes, drank him under the table while telling stories, and kissed him so hard he ended up sprawled on his back on the steps of Haven. It was a simpler time. It was a lie, but it was a simpler one.

The Inquisition had changed Ylassa. Leadership frustrated her but also seemed to suit her. She took her job seriously and brought that passion and raw energy into the War Room. It was a marvel to watch her _vallaslin_ wrinkle as she scowled at him, or her ear twitch when she was lost in thought. The woman from the tavern was still there, just in a different way.

As Cullen thought about that, sleep finally took him.

 

“Hi, Cullen,” came a voice from already inside his tent. “I think we need to talk.”

He almost jumped into the air. “Lassa! Maker, don’t _scare_ me like that.

" _Sorry,_ " she whispered, a slight wince on her face. She held her hands up as if to show that she wasn't a direct threat. "I forget that you're a bit jumpy."

"It's... It's alright. Just... it might help if you don't show up at my tent unannounced, please.”

"I'll keep that in mind."

He tossed his clipboard on the desk, “Were you just sitting in here waiting for me?”

She was sitting in his armchair but rose from her seat and stretched her arms. “Don’t worry, I wasn’t waiting long.” Ylassa took a few steps forward, “And I would have waited a lot longer.”

He sighed and rubbed at his eyes. As much as Cullen adored Ylassa, she was standing between him and his cot, and therefore standing between him and an hour or two of fitful sleep. “Did you need something, Herald?”

“Come on Cullen, we can drop the titles and pretenses. Like I said, we need to have a talk.”

“ _Yes._ And what is it you want to talk about?”

“That conversation we had this afternoon was… interesting. Rather illuminating, in more ways than one.” Ylassa took a few more steps towards him, closing the gap between them until her face was dangerously close to him. If he leaned forward in the slightest bit, he could have kissed her. Her eyes narrowed as Cullen moved his head back. “Why are you afraid of me?”

“I’m not afraid of you—and you are standing _very_ close.” Politely, he took a step back from her.

This made Ylassa chuckle, and she sat on the edge of Cullen’s desk, “Oh, I think you _are_ afraid of me. Creators know why—I’m rather charming, if I do say so myself.”

“Lassa, what are you doing?”

“It’s a nice tent,” she observed, changing the subject to avoid his question. “Is this where you would have taken me, had I taken up your offer the night we met?”

Cullen could have sworn that every ounce of blood in his body flooded to his cheeks. “Uh—well—I—yes, I mean—” He rubbed almost furiously at the back of his head.

Ylassa giggled, “You’re very cute when you’re nervous, you know that?”

All Cullen could really do was let out an exasperated wheeze.

“You know…” she got up off of the desk and stepped toward him, trailing a finger along the desk’s surface. “It wouldn’t be too hard for us to just… pick up where we left off. It would be easy. Like _that,_ ” she snapped her fingers by his ear.

He gulped, his mouth suddenly dry. His whole head felt like it was reeling, “Are—Are you saying what I _think_ you’re saying?”

“Yes.” Once again, she had closed the distance between them until a slight tilt of her head would have meant doom for him. “I’m getting a bit tired of beating around the bush, and I think you are too, so I’m going to take a bit of initiative here. I like you, Cullen. I _care_ about you. And I _know_ you feel the same about me.”

_Ylassa…_ cared _about him? In the way he cared about her?_ He shook the thought off. “There are about a _dozen_ reasons why that would be a bad—”

She shushed him, “Just for a moment. No Herald, no Commander. Just Lassa and Cullen.” She pressed her forehead to his, “It could be _so easy_. You just have to say… yes.”

Cullen let out a shaky exhale at her proximity, an anxious energy running through him. “This—This _has to_ be a dream,” he murmured. He grabbed her chin and tilted her face up to kiss him, but he halted as an odd thought struck him.

_This isn't real._

He dropped his hand from her face and backed away, “Something’s wrong here.”

“Cullen? What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know, I just—” He wracked his brain. “Something’s wrong here, I—I remember going to bed… Yes. And you—you were in your cabin."

“Cullen?” Ylassa took his face in her hands. They were warm, and Cullen leaned into the touch for a fraction of a second “Are you feeling all right?”

He absentmindedly batted her hands away and marched over his desk, grabbing the clipboard he had brought in and reading it.

There were words on the page certainly, but they were… meaningless. Sentences that seemed like sentences, but with nonsensical meanings that turned fuzzy in his head the moment he read them. “Am I…? I think I’m losing my mind, Lassa.”

Ylassa stepped slowly next to him and rubbed his upper back, “Hey, it’s okay. Let’s just get you to bed, okay? I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have sprung on you like that.”

Cullen nodded mutely and tried to make his way to the bed, but his head spun. Or, more appropriately, it felt like his environment was spinning around him while he himself stood still.

_This isn’t real,_ his thoughts screamed again.

Curious at the random thought, he closed his eyes and used the lyrium still in his blood to reach out, out past the tent, and—

He hit a barrier.

_Fuck._

Cullen’s eyes snapped open as he spun around to Ylassa, “This isn’t real.”

Ylassa’s eyebrows knit together, “What?”

“This—This isn’t real. This is the Fade, I’m dream-walking. This isn’t real, and—” A feeling of dread hit him, curling cold and heavy in the pit of his stomach. “ _You._ You’re not real.” He could feel his blood pressure rising as he began to panic. “You’re a demon.”

Ylassa—or whatever creature had the _gall_ to wear the skin of the Herald of Andraste, smiled, almost _warmly_. It sent another shiver up his spine. “I’m not a demon, Cullen.”

“Yes, you are! I mean, you create some fabrication of my tent, bring in Ylassa, and what, you expect me to give in so easily? You’re—” Realization struck him, “You’re a Desire demon. That’s the only thing I can think of.”

“Cullen, _Cullen,_ ” the creature spoke in a soothing voice that was somehow still _Ylassa’s_. He wanted to yell at them to stop speaking in her voice. “Listen, please, listen? Will you hear me out? I’m not a demon, my name is Yearning and—”

“No, forget this.” Cullen’s first thought was to get the Void out of there, but when he reached the flap of the tent, it was solid. He couldn’t pass through. “ _Fuck!”_

“Cullen,” the creature soothed again, taking another few steps towards him. “Hey…”

Cullen snapped, a new anger bubbling towards this imposter. “ _You._ Don't take another step further. I don’t care if I’m dreaming in the Fade, I’m going to take you down myself.” He reached for the pommel of his sword at his hip but found the sheath empty. He swore again.

A twinkle of amusement shone in the demon’s eye, “Really, Cullen? You think I’d let a Templar into my domain and let him keep his sword? Ridiculous.” The creature sighed, “That’s a shame, we were so close. I suppose I just have to change tactics.”

“No matter,” Cullen growled. “I’ll take you down with my bare hands if I have to.” Within a couple of strides, he was within arm’s reach of the demon, wrapping his hands around their throat.

The demon looked more inconvenienced than anything. “Again, really? This is the Fade. I don’t have a windpipe. I don’t need lungs. I’m a spirit—”

“Release. Me.” Despite the demon’s protests, he tightened his hold around their neck.

The demon huffed, before smiling warmly, as if amused by Cullen’s antics. “Okay. Fine. But I’ll see you again soon. You can count on that…” _The demon snapped their fingers, and suddenly…_

 

Cullen woke up in his cot, the broad sunlight of early morning in Haven slipping through the cracks in his tent. “Oh, thank the _Maker_ ,” he breathed out loud.

He was awake, now. He made sure to reach out with his lyrium to sense any magic and—nothing. No more than usual given their proximity to the Breach, anyway.  He was awake, and everything around him was _real._

He felt like he had fallen from a great height and bruised every muscle on the way down, but it was real, and he was safe. Cullen sighed in relief. “It’s okay,” he whispered to reassure himself and his loudly-beating heart. “It’s all fine.”

_What the fuck had just happened?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BITCH YOU THOUGHT.
> 
> The original draft of this had Cullen grappling with an actual Desire demon, but things got a bit too dark for my tastes. Thus, Yearning was born.
> 
> Hope y'all are ready for part two with some Fade Shenanigans. I know I am. Things are going to get W I L D.


	9. Yearning Interrupted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The mages arrive tomorrow, and Cullen tries to throw himself into his work. Solas provides Cullen with surprisingly helpful advice and explanations about the Fade. Ylassa admits her self-doubt about her abilities as a leader. A spirit decides that Cullen is their new best friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back from the dead, y'all.
> 
> I know it's been a very long time, but I promise I never stopped writing it. The Word document this fic is written on has more than 120,000 words! The holdup has been a mixture of life problems and the fact that the next few chapters are a bit out of my comfort zone--for many reasons, including developing personal Fade headcannons and using gender-neutral pronouns for Yearning. Every once in a while I go back, try to write, get discouraged, and write a scene 50,000+ words later where they're already together and nothing hurts.
> 
> This is also a series now! A chance to dabble in other things when it feels like this fic is dragging on for me. Stuff from Ylassa's perspective, some established-relationship one-shots, maybe even a genuine attempt at writing smut, which is a little bit out of my wheelhouse. (It's incredibly out of my wheelhouse, who am I kidding.)
> 
> When I started writing this fic, I was still in grad school. Since I started publishing, I:  
> \- Moved to NYC to finish grad school  
> \- Finished grad school  
> \- Moved back home while I tried to find a job  
> \- Decided to stay at home for family reasons and got a job teaching private music lessons, mostly for 5-8 year olds. 
> 
> It's such a short amount of time when I think about it, but it's been a lot. And if you've been with me since Chapter One, thank you. I'm happy with where I am now, and I hope wherever you are, you're happy with where you are, too. I endeavour to write more often--it's something I genuinely enjoy. 
> 
> Without further ado: more pining and self-indulgent Fade Shit.

Cullen laid on his back and stared up at the tent of his ceiling feeling like he got his head caved in. Or perhaps he was merely _wishing_ he had gotten his head caved in—it might have relieved his pain.

Everything felt… decidedly odd. He had checked the second he had woken up and checked again for good measure, but he was _absolutely_ not Dreaming. He held his hand in front of his face and waved it.

He had sweat bullets during the night, kicking off his blanket at some point. He was also raggedly breathing, and for some reason had a raging hard-on—probably still from when that _demon_ had tried to proposition him by taking Ylassa’s form. He wished that he hadn’t let it go so far, but the lyrium withdrawal made it harder than usual for him to use his Templar abilities.

Cullen internally criticized himself for having to use his Templar abilities to detect the Fade magic around him—he should have been able to detect something that glaringly obvious on instinct. It was no matter, however, what was done was done. His Templar abilities weakening or going away entirely was something that he came to terms with when he decided to quit lyrium. Criticizing himself for _exactly that_ happening would get him nowhere.

He sat up and rested on the edge of his cot, his head between his knees, trying to focus on the breathing that would calm down both his anxiety and the tent in his trousers. The entirety of his mouth tasted like iron and he didn’t know why.

_Have to start the day soon enough_ , he supposed. Frankly, he wanted to crawl back under his covers and fake an illness—well, not _fake_ an illness _,_ after all, everything from his head to his muscles to his joints _did_ ache—but he worried that falling back asleep would drag him back into whatever pit in the Fade that Desire demon had crawled out of.

_Fuck,_ he had been off of lyrium, _what, a few months?_ And he was _already_ so weak as to make him a prime target for demons? He’d have to have a chat with… _Fuck, who would he even talk to about this? Cassandra? Solas?_

Solas wasn’t a bad idea, actually. The mage was probably still pissed off at him for that escapade with Silencing Ylassa’s mark a few days ago, but the apostate _certainly_ had a plethora of experience dealing with this sort of thing. How had a demon worked its way through the Veil around Haven, anyway? He should have a chat with Solas about that, regardless.

Satisfied with his current emotional state, he got up from his cot and pulled back the flap of his tent to get a feel for the time of day. He swore at the midmorning sun. The War Meeting would have just started and he hadn’t even put on his uniform. Cullen closed the tent flap and rubbed at his face. Should he talk to Solas now, and be late for the meeting? Or just talk to Solas afterwards?

_Ylassa._ Ylassa would be at the meeting. _Andraste preserve him._ He didn’t want to deal with her right now—her presence would just confuse the situation even more.

“It’s fine,” Cullen whispered to himself out loud. “It’s fine.” He’d go to Solas first and arrive to the meeting late, if need be. Ylassa always arrived to meetings late anyway, right? The meeting would have started by now and would be in full swing before either of them arrived. He could duck in, apologize for his tardiness, keep his head down, and disappear at the end of the meeting before anyone could catch him. _Easy_.

Satisfied with his plan of attack, Cullen set to work throwing off his rough tunic and breeches that he used for sleep and throwing on his uniform and boots. His armor was an odd struggle—he was long used to the weight of it, but today the weight felt almost crushing. He could lift the pieces fine but left him feeling drained. He felt like a small child trying to lift his father’s breastplate.

He managed to get everything on, although there was some fumbling with the buckles. _What, was this his first time in armor?_ He was just tired, and he contemplated praying for a sharp object to come and let out the building pressure on the left part of his skull. His own damn teeth ached from it.

After quickly running some pomade through his unkempt curls until they looked passably presentable, Cullen exited his tent, tying on his cloak and snapping on his gloves as he walked. His destination was clear—the upper levels of Haven, in that courtyard by the tavern where Solas’ cabin-slash-laboratory was.

He passed by Ylassa’s cabin—he blushed and grumbled slightly but kept on moving towards the stairs and up them. He’d have taken the steps two-by-two if he weren’t so exhausted.

“Commander!”

Halfway up the stairs, Cullen turned to look back down at whoever was calling his name. Ylassa smiled up at him as she closed the door to her cottage behind her, hair a bit mussed and her eyes still heavy with sleep. Cullen’s heart hammered in his throat, and not in a pleasant way. _This was the last thing he needed._ Wasn’t the whole point of his carefully-laid plan of attack to _avoid_ the amount he’d be exposed to Ylassa today?

All the same, he had seen her, she had _seen_ him see her, and so he figured that it would be incredibly rude to continue walking without acknowledging her—and hadn’t they both promised to at least _try_ to be friendlier with each other?

Sure, pretty much every single attempt since then had ended up an unmitigated disaster… but ignoring her would ruffle her feathers unnecessarily.

Then again… if he said something and Ylassa tore his head off, he’d at least be free of his migraine.

He finally settled for a tight-lipped smile and politely waiting for her to catch up.

“Morning!” she called, half-jogging up the stairs to join him. “Running late I see,” she teased.

Cullen resumed walking, and Ylassa fell into step next to him, “I could say the same to you.”

“Me being late is a given. But you’re a beacon of Templar virtue—cleanliness, godliness, punctuality, all that fun stuff. I’ve never known you to be late. Should we check to see if the sky is falling?” At the top of the stairs, she spun on her heels and walked a few steps backward to examine the Breach, “Well… no more than usual, I suppose.”

He felt her eyes dart to his face to look for approval of her joke—and normally he would have at least given her a polite chuckle, if not a sly comeback—but his head hurt too much currently to bother. He finally settled for another tight-lipped smile, and her face fell slightly. The rest of the walk passed by silently.

It turned out that the silence was worse, because now Cullen’s mind was wandering. The dream from the night before flittered around his mind like an unwelcome housefly that bounced from wall to wall. Fragments, really. How near she was to him, her crooked smile, the glint of lantern light in her dark, round eyes. The warmth of her hands when she touched his face, and how—despite having already gotten the feeling that something was horribly wrong—he had leaned into her touch like he had been starved of affection his entire life. He still resented himself for that, as well as for how his heart sang when his dream told him that she had wanted him. _Andraste preserve him._

Without realizing it, his shoulders had crept higher and higher towards his ears, possibly his subconscious way of to mask the tempest of crimson on his face with the fur collar of his cloak.

Cullen hazarded a glance in Ylassa’s direction to see if she had noticed, but she blessedly hadn’t. Her hands shoved into the pockets of her overcoat, she stared straight ahead with the kind of blankness of a person still trying to come to terms with being awake. The bags under her eyes were something he knew all too well—she hadn’t slept last night, or if she had, only a handful of hours late into the morning.

He never thought that he’d ever _wish_ for sleep to have avoided him.

“Cullen…  Aren’t you coming?”

When he zoned back to reality, he noticed that Ylassa had stopped a few feet behind him. She now stood, holding the Chantry door open and sending him a puzzled look.

He furrowed his brow so tightly it actually hurt, “… Coming to what?”

Her puzzled look doubled as she pointed inside, “To the War Meeting… We do have a War Meeting, right? I didn’t just make that up in my head, did I?” She chuckled wryly, “Showing up late to a War Meeting that wasn’t even scheduled. Creators, that’d be a new low for me.”

He blinked away another pang of a migraine. _Shit,_ he had been so preoccupied this morning that he had forgotten about finding a way out of the War Meeting. His brain felt like it was scattered to the four winds. “No, no. There _is_ a War Meeting. I, uh…”

Her brow furrowed, and now they were mirrors of each other—tight brows and lips, silent and confused, too afraid to speak and add more to the awkwardness. Finally, she spoke, “Cullen, are you feeling all right?”

He huffed—he wasn’t a born liar even on his good days. So he settled for the truth. _Or, part of it, anyway._ “I have something I need to take care of first. Before the meeting. I actually need to see Solas about something,” he threw his thumb over his shoulder in the general direction of Solas’ cabin.

Ylassa’s eyes narrowed, taking her look from puzzled to scrutinizing, “You need to talk to _Solas_?” She groaned and rolled her eyes, “Gods, Cullen, if this is about that Silencing incident from a few days ago… just drop it, all right? Solas and I duked it out, everything is fine.”

He’s almost certain she meant ‘duking it out’ as a kind of verbal altercation, but the mental image of the Ylassa and Solas in fisticuffs—and she would almost certainly win if her prior history was to be believed—managed to lift his dour mood, if only slightly. “What? No, it’s not about that—although that is good to know. This is a totally separate… thing.”

She finally released the door, letting it swing shut behind her. Her scrutinizing gaze hadn’t let up, but she at least took a few steps closer to him, so she could lower her voice, “… Is this about you not sleeping? Or the headaches?”

Well _fuck,_ Cullen was not about to turn away a free excuse that had just been gift-wrapped for him. “Yes.” Then, with more certainty; “Yes, that is exactly what I’m doing. Talking to Solas about the sleeping problems.” This was also not _technically_ a lie.

Her face perked up significantly, “Wow! That’s wonderful to hear. You just… No offense, you look like you’re about to pass out.”

“None taken,” he muttered. “I just… had a rough night.” That _definitely_ wasn’t a lie.

“Me too,” Ylassa admitted. “Just… the mage forces arriving tomorrow have me all worked up, I guess.” She shrugged it off before he could respond either way, “So… I guess I’ll see you when I see you.”

“I don’t anticipate Solas will take too long,” Cullen reassured, “and then I’ll join in the Meeting. Do tell the others I’ll be on my way shortly.”

He turned to leave and head for Solas’ cabin, but she caught his arm. “If you’re not feeling well, I can cover for you at the War Meeting.”

“That’s not necessary, Herald,” he placated before brushing her hand away delicately, but being sure not to do so unkindly. Even through the wrist guards of his armor, her touch felt like electricity. “Really. But thank you.”

“I’m dead serious.”

“I _know_ that you are. But I told you, I’m fine.” He rubbed at his face, suddenly repressing the urge to throw up.

Ylassa glowered at him and stepped even closer, now practically whispering. Last night’s dream flashed back to him again—the closeness, the hush of her voice, the curve of her lips. Cullen felt his ears go red.

“Look,” she began, “you’re very good at keeping yourself together. You’ve apparently been off lyrium this whole time and I’ve been none the wiser, and that’s fine. But _believe me_ when I say that you look terrible right now. You look like a man who just came down with a bad case of the Blight. You’re less golden and more wax. I’ve met corpses that looked more alive than you do right now.”

“I get your point,” he grumbled, his pride feeling admittedly a bit bruised.

“I’m not saying it to be hurtful,” she said as if reading his mind. Or maybe he had outwardly winced. “I’m saying it to make a point.” She jabbed lightly at the breastplate of his armor, “I see right through your masculine bravado this time. Remember what we talked about—we’re not martyrs. Take the day off, Commander. After you’re done meeting Solas. That’s an order.”

“I don’t think you can actually give me orders,” Cullen grumbled. _Could_ she really order him around? Ylassa made some of the larger decisions for the Inquisition because they largely hinged on _her,_ and he certainly advised her in that regard, but the actual hierarchy of the fledgling Inquisition wasn’t completely cemented. As much as his head hurt, he had to push back. “I will take the afternoon off. _After_ the War Meeting. The mages arrive tomorrow, and that’s far too important of a meeting to miss.”

Ylassa let out a long exhale. “Deal.” The corner of her mouth lifted slightly, “I figured you were going to try to negotiate.”  

He glanced at her weakly, “… And you’ll cover for me at the War Meeting until I get there?”

“Absolutely. I’ll tell them you’re feeling unwell.”

“No!” he snapped a bit too harshly. He winced an apology, but Ylassa hadn’t seemed bothered by it, so he let it go. “Don’t tell them I’m unwell. I don’t want them to worry.” Mainly, he didn’t want _Cassandra_ to worry.

Ylassa made a big show of rolling her eyes before relenting, “Okay, fine. I’ll tell them you had a training… _thing_.”

Cullen sighed, relief washing through him. “I owe you one, Herald.”

“Damn straight you do. And I better not see you later on today barking at your troops or tossing bales of hay or whatever the fuck you Fereldens do for fun. If I see you working too hard, I’ll—I’ll…” She tossed her hands up in exasperation, “I don’t know how to finish that threat. I’ll set fire to your desk or something.”

That at least eked out a chuckle from him, and one of her ears twitched with something like pride. “Creators, I really have to get to the meeting. I overslept again—what else is new?” She started the process of running her fingers through her hair so it would look a little less slept-in. “Oh—that reminds me! I had an odd dream about you last night.”

Cullen froze, and he suddenly wished a Fade rift would open right where he was and swallow him whole. “That so?” he managed to mutter as he felt his whole face turn red.

Ylassa gave a mad chuckle, “I didn’t really. But you should see the look on your face—you are really fun to mess with.”

His face still burning, he narrowed his eyes and shot her an unamused glare.

This only made her grin wider, “Right. Sorry. Shouldn’t be messing with you. I know you’re not feeling well.”

“You wouldn’t be Ylassa Lavellan if you didn’t mess with people.”

“Fair point.”

“Maker, Herald, would you _please_ get to the War Meeting before the Lady Seeker sends out a search party for you?”

“All right, all right. See you in a bit. Feel better.” With a slight grunt of effort, she yanked the heavy door to the Chantry open and sent him a quick wave before disappearing through it. With a heavy sigh, Cullen turned back around and continued on his path to the side courtyard.

 

There was at least _some_ luck on his side today—he caught the apostate as he was exiting his cabin. “Oh, Solas! Do you mind if I have a word?”

Solas sent him a strange gaze—curiosity mixed with something a bit apprehensive. _Perhaps wariness?_ He adjusted the leather strap around his shoulders that attached his lyrium staff to his body. “I was just about to embark on my morning walk,” he commented in a cool, neutral tone that didn’t really show how he felt about the subject. “Perhaps you’d like to join me?”

Cullen didn’t really feel up to a walk, but still politely accepted the mage’s offer and followed him down the stairs next to the tavern to the lower levels of Haven.

He at least waited until they were near the gate until he broached the subject, “There are demons hanging around the Veil in Haven.”

Solas’ face did not change. “… No, there aren’t,” he said simply.

“Well, there are.”

“ _No,_ ” Solas repeated, more firmly, “there aren’t. I dream in the Fade every night, Commander. I’m constantly examining the Veil around here. I would know.”

“I was visited by a Desire demon last night, Solas. I don’t know what else to tell you.”

One of the apostate’s eyebrows arched slightly, breaking his earlier stony mask. “That’s rather curious. But you have my word—no demons.”

They were through the gates now, past the training grounds, down the long path that ran along Haven’s front wall, past the blacksmith. The snow crunched under Cullen’s boots, while Solas’ footwraps made his steps almost silent. He stopped every ten or twenty paces, occasionally tapping his staff on the ground. Cullen didn’t ask why.

The air was fresh, and free from the din of Haven’s usual bustle, but the sun’s light bouncing off of the fresh, white snow hurt Cullen to look at. He trained his eyes onto the dirt of the road.

“Then do you mind telling me what in the Void I _did_ have a vision of last night?”

Solas’ brow furrowed in thought for a few moments before realization dawned on him. “I trust that you were able to ascertain the demon’s true form rather quickly?”

_Longer than I should admit,_ Cullen thought to himself. But outwardly, he replied, “Yes.”

“Tricking you would have been out of the question, then. So, what did it offer you?”

He blinked. “Offer me?”

“Yes, offer you,” Solas repeated. “What did the Desire demon offer you, and what did it ask for in return? What _deal_ did it want to make? When a Desire demon cannot trick, it tries to bargain.”

“… The Desire demon offered me no deal, Solas. I doubt I was Dreaming long enough for it to make any kind of offer.”

One of the mage’s eyebrows quirked as he got to the heart of his line of questioning, “You’re a Templar, so I’m sure you’re well-acquainted with the subject… isn’t offering your deepest desires for a very hefty price the _entire point_ of a Desire demon?” There was a hint of a smile in his voice.

Cullen huffed. Solas had him there.

A throb of his ever-growing migraine hit him, and he winced and rubbed at his face. He had felt awful since waking up, but he couldn’t tell if it was from Dreaming, lyrium withdrawal, or an unfortunate mixture of both.

Solas’ brow furrowed with concern, “Out of curiosity, Commander, were you pulled from the Fade rather suddenly?” The elf’s voice sounded very far away despite being right next to Cullen.

He wasn’t really sure what that meant. “Maybe? I feel… Nothing feels right. I’m probably not making any kind of sense.”

“You’re making more sense than you might think. Come with me,” Solas said with a resigned and borderline-dramatic sigh as he turned on his heel and moved back in the direction of Haven, with Cullen following at his heels.

 

Solas’ cabin reminded Cullen of a Circle library. The air was different in the cabin somehow—magically charged and smelling slightly of iron, ink, and old books. It had the kind of mess not of a slob, but of a scholar on the verge of finishing a major project. Books of various sizes and thickness laid open on every conceivable surface, some also being used as weights to hold unrolled scrolls flat.

_(Where did Solas even get all these texts?_ He had arrived at Haven with nothing but his staff and the clothes on his back, Cullen didn’t recall book requisitions in such a quantity—although, admittedly, not every requisition order crossed his desk. _Perhaps Solas had friends and suppliers in all sorts of places?_ )

The wall above Solas’ primary desk was completely quilted in papers with various notes, drawings, and diagrams. A few loose sheets of paper fluttered about aimlessly in the draft as Solas opened the door and ushered Cullen in. 

“Pardon the mess,” the elf declared with an air of someone who honestly didn’t care what the Commander thought of the mess but felt obligated to say so merely out of etiquette. “Would you care for some tea?” Without waiting for a response, he sent a flutter of fire magic towards the fireplace and it flared to life, beginning to heat up a kettle that was already hanging over it.

The rush of magic made the lyrium in Cullen’s veins thrum, and he hissed slightly at the throb behind his eyeballs. The whole room felt like it was spinning.

Solas mumbled a quick apology before padding over to the small table, removing the open book from the chair and gently tossing it onto his bed. He cleared the two open books stacked on top of each other on the other chair in a similar fashion. “By all means, Commander, sit.”

As Cullen did so, Solas knelt next to his bed and pulled out a small chest from under it. Upon opening, Cullen could see vials of various sizes and containing liquids of all sorts of colors. Some glowed. With almost little searching, the mage plucked out a vial and shut the chest, sliding it back under his bed.

He padded back over to Cullen and offered the vial he had pulled from the chest. It was so small that he could hold it between his thumb and index fingers, and the liquid inside was glowing purple. “Drink this. It will help.”

Cullen took the vial in his hands and uncorked it. The liquid in it smelled earthy. “What’s in this?” he asked with thinly-veiled disgust.

“Herbal ingredients, mostly, bonded together with a spell. Some of the ingredients are a bit rarer, which means I can’t make large batches of this potion. Luckily, you’ll only need a small amount.”  

“No lyrium in this?”

“None. Why, is that a concern for you?”

“No,” Cullen lied through his teeth. “I already had my dose today. Just wanted to make sure I wasn’t double-dosing.”

“Ah,” Solas’ nose wrinkled, although Cullen wasn’t sure which part of the conversation brought forth the mage’s disdain. _The mention of lyrium? The reminder that Cullen was a (former) Templar?_  “No, don’t worry. I’d recommend waiting for the tea before you drink this, so you can wash it down. It’s a rather foul concoction.” He set himself busy with nothing, moving around the books and papers on the table Cullen was sitting at without actually removing any of them from the table.

Cullen noticed, with surprising clarity given his migraine, that one of the loose sheets of paper on the table was a very detailed sketch of Ylassa’s left hand. Front and back, detailing the size of the mark, its growth rate, and other such observations. A few other things scribbled in the margins—Solas’ handwriting was surprisingly messy—but one thing that stood out was ‘ _EXPONENTIAL GROWTH. FIND AN ACCEPTABLE WARD SOLUTION_ ’. All capital letters, underlined several times. “It seems like you’ve been busy since coming to Haven,” Cullen noted after a moment’s pause.

The mage nodded and looked around the room, as if suddenly noticing the mess all around him. “These Fade rifts are opening and growing at an increasing rate of frequency, size, and power. The Herald is capable, but she cannot be in so many places at once. Much as she tries to.”

_Isn’t that the truth?_ he thought to himself. “Perhaps if we figure out how to close Fade rifts and the Breach independently from the mark, we can set to work on removing it before it eats her alive.”

“That is precisely my hope. It is nice to know that someone else thinks of it as a worthwhile venture of study. Our friend Varric seems to just think I’m a madman.”

Cullen merely snorted at the idea that Varric could be considered a ‘friend’ to either one of them. Acquaintance, sure. Colleague, comrade, nuisance? Absolutely. Friend? Questionable to either one of them.

Solas chuckled along with him, possibly mistaking Cullen’s own chuckle as an agreement with Varric’s statement. “Perhaps I am one, but I doubt it is so because of my research.”

The kettle whistled, and the shrill noise rattled in Cullen’s head. The elf rushed to the fireplace with an odd amount of gracefulness and moved the hanging kettle from the fireplace onto the hook just to the side of it. He plucked two ceramic teacups that were upturned on the mantle, blew the dust out of both of them, and gave their insides a quick clean with the hem of his tunic. He poured the contents of the kettle, already brewed with the tea leaves into the first cup.

“Oh,” Solas muttered, waving his hand over the teacup with a quick frost spell to cool it to drinking temperature before handing it to Cullen. “The faster it cools, the faster you can use it to wash down the _elgaralas._ ”

“The… what?” Cullen asked as he finally uncorked the purple vial he had been holding in his hand.

Solas hummed. “It doesn’t translate right to Common. It literally means ‘spirit ground’. In a metaphorical sense it sort of… At the risk of sounding a bit derivative, it helps _ground your_ spirit, I suppose. Drink up.”

Cullen tossed his head back and drank the contents of the vial in one gulp, trying to avoid the taste that Solas had warned him about. Its consistency was slow and heavy, like molasses, and much of it stuck to the back of his tongue anyway. Everything in his mouth tasted like dirt and iron. He spluttered and reached for the cup of tea, sipping the lukewarm liquid until he tasted more bitterness from the tea and less dirt from the concoction. “ _Maker,_ that is foul.”

Solas actually _laughed._ It was short, more of a rumble in his chest than anything, but it was a laugh all the same. He went back to the kettle to pour his own cup of tea.

After a few seconds, Cullen’s head began to clear. The throb in his head dulled. His mouth tasted less like iron. He let out a sigh of relief as he felt the world around him stop spinning and slow to a halt. “Oh, that’s…” He cleared his throat from some of the residue and taste of the potion. “That’s a _lot_ better. Thank you.”

“Good to hear.” Solas sat down in the chair on the opposite side of the table, “Being pulled suddenly out of the Fade is a jarring experience, even for expert Fade Dreamers like myself. Your mind is essentially in another realm—across what we consider to be our own ‘world’, but at the same time, no distance away. You can be everywhere and nowhere, an infinite distance away and in the same place. The return to the waking world needs to be gradual, or else it can be difficult for your mind to reconcile with the physical sensations of your body. Not doing it properly can lead to all sorts of odd side effects.”

“Feeling hungover?” Cullen suggested. “Or dizzy spells?”

“Those would be some, yes,” Solas confirmed. “I usually end up forgetting things for a bit. Easy things, like my own name or what day it is. Even to this day I carry a vial of that stuff around—you never know when you’re going to be interrupted while dreaming. Some of the ingredients in the potion have to be Fade-touched. It helps.” He sipped at his tea and immediately winced in revulsion.

“Something wrong with your tea?”

“No more than usual,” he replied curtly. “I can’t stand tea.”

Cullen’s brow furrowed, a bit baffled. “Then… why do you drink it?”

Solas shrugged—more of a quick up-and-down bob of his shoulders, but an odd gesture from someone who normally carried himself with ethereal graveness and ageless wisdom. “I think, more than anything, I just enjoy drinking something warm.” He held the steaming cup in both of his hands and drummed his fingers along the sides to prove his point. “Normally conversations of this nature merit either tea or alcohol, and it’s a bit early for alcohol, don’t you think?”

“You could try cider,” Cullen proffered. “Or cocoa.”

The mage sent Cullen a dry, two-second glare from across the table before taking another sip of his tea. His reaction was less visceral this time—a quick wrinkle of his nose and nothing more. “To bring us back to what you initially came to me to discuss…” He drummed his fingers on the side of his tea cup once more. “So, you dreamt in the Fade?”

“It would appear so, yes.”

“And you say you were approached by a… Desire demon,” he muttered dubiously.

Cullen leaned back in his chair, “You sound doubtful.”

The mage nodded, “I have a different possible explanation for the phenomena you experienced in the Fade last night. If you don’t mind me offering it, that is.”

“By all means.” Cullen gestured for his companion to continue.

“I monitor the Fade around Haven for demon activity. You have my word about that. But I am occasionally visited by other friends of mine here from time to time. Spirits.”

Cullen balked, almost spitting up his tea. “ _Spirits?_ You _just_ said that you don’t let them in the Fade around here.”

“ _Demons,_ Commander,” Solas shot back, “it is the _demons_ that I repel from Haven _._ Spirits are different.”

“How so?”

“Demons are corrupted spirits, Commander. Sometimes crossing the Veil or being forced to take a physical form is enough, other times their true, intended purpose must be twisted and violated. Spirits—the ones I’ve befriended anyway—are valuable sources of information and companionship. They are no threat to you, or anyone else in Haven. In fact, a spirit friend of mine visited me as I Dreamed last night. Perhaps they made a… detour on the way out.”

Cullen crossed his arms, “Solas, are you telling me that I was visited by one of your _friends_ last night?”

“It’s a possibility. An old friend of mine that _could_ be mistaken for a Desire demon, to an unexperienced dreamer. A Spirit of Yearning.”

“Yearning?”

“Spirits tend to find one purpose—one aspect of humanity—and fixate on it. Most spirits try to promote or embody their aspects. A Spirit of Wisdom is trying to collect all the wisdom they can. A Spirit of Hunger seeks to consume all around it.” Solas crossed his arms and tapped one of his bare feet, “Yearning is unique. They… seek out those who feel a great sense of longing. What they have to gain from it, I’ll never truly understand, but they are attracted to it like a moth to a flame.”

“So you’re suggesting that your spirit _friend_ …” he leaned into the word ‘friend’ with some incredulity, “sought me out?”

“I would say that they were more… drawn to you. If that is, of course, the case,” the apostate added, leaning back into his chair and tenting his fingertips together. “I don’t want to tell you who your visited apparition last night was of.”

"Your _friend_... its purpose sounds awfully similar to a Desire demon. Could it be possible that a 'Spirit of Yearning'--" he quoted skeptically, "--if corrupted, could turn into a Desire demon?"

Solas chuckled dryly, "No. Yearning is… unusual. They are the only one of their kind I’ve met. There is no other Spirit of Yearning, and they have not been corrupted. They are…” He wavered. “I hesitate to use the word ‘good’—spirits are far too complicated for trite black-and-white terms. But very little of what they do and who they are leaves them open for corruption.”

“So…” Cullen sipped at his tea, at a loss for words.

“So,” Solas echoed, gray eyes studying… something. Cullen wasn’t sure what, exactly

“Solas… We can’t have spirits running around Haven. I know you say that your friend is harmless, but it’s still a huge risk. We have literally hundreds of mages on their way to Haven right now, and they’re susceptible. The Herald might be as well.”

“There is _no risk,_ ” the apostate said firmly, looking rather put out. “I do not doubt that many people in Haven have had perfectly innocuous interactions with spirits—and without even knowing it! They touch our lives more than you might think.”

“That doesn’t _matter_ ,” Cullen protested. “I’m still not comfortable with it. I don’t think that many people _would_ be if they were to know the truth. Haven needs to be… Well, a haven. I will not have innocent people placed in danger. Even if the danger lies only in what they perceive.”

“Many people fear what they do not understand,” Solas mused after a moment. His face bore some begrudging agreement. “I suppose I have little choice. I am a guest with the Inquisition, and my helpfulness and willingness to cooperate is the only reason I have not been burned at the stake by the Lady Seeker.”

“Would you be willing to talk to your spirit friend? I just don’t like the idea of being a target. Of _any_ of us, for that matter.”

The apostate made a face like he considered objecting to Cullen’s use of the word ‘target’, but he appeared to have thought better of it. “They’re not _pets,_ Commander, they’re not exactly at my beck and call.” After a moment of silence, he huffed, “I can certainly try.”

“That’s all I ask.” Having finished his tea and run out of things to say, he stood up from the table. “Well, I have a War Meeting to get to. Solas, you have my thanks for the ‘spirit ground’. And the tea. And the very illuminating conversation. We must do it again sometime,” he added as a bit of a dry joke.

“Hmm,” Solas answered, which roughly translated to ‘ _don’t count on it_ ’. “You are welcome.” He stood up, “I must resume my walk. This is the time of day where I examine the Veil around Haven for abnormalities.”

“Was that what you were doing?” he asked sheepishly. “I apologize for interrupting you.”

“Think nothing of it,” Solas answered, brushing Cullen off and grabbing his staff leaning next to the door. “After you,” he declared upon opening the door.

Cullen exited the cabin, the apostate on his heels. They shared a curt goodbye-nod before parting ways—Solas on his way out of Haven, Cullen on the way to the Chantry.

 

He tried to make his entrance into the War Room as quietly as possible, but all four women still went quiet as Cullen walked in.

“Thank you for coming, Commander.” It was hard to tell if Leliana was being passive-aggressive or not—her thick Orlesian accent and general aura of disdain made most of the things that came out of her mouth sound passive-aggressive.

“I apologize for the delay.”

Ylassa cleared her throat, consulting her clipboard. “Moving along— mage accommodations. Starting tomorrow, the population of Haven is going to double. Josephine, have the additional supply lines been secured? We don’t want empty stomachs.”

“I received correspondence yesterday, Herald. The additional supplies should arrive sometime tomorrow.”

“Excellent. Leliana, how go the requisitions?”

“All additional tents have been crafted and handed off to the Commander’s people. Additional weapons and staves need to wait until that first delivery from the new supply line.”

“It’ll have to do. Housing—Commander, are the additional barracks and tents ready to go?”

Cullen shifted on his feet, “I ordered Rylen to start barking orders to get the tents up at first light. The camps should be underway as we speak.”

“Wonderful. All that’s left is to discuss the lyrium supply.”

“Lyrium supply?” Cullen echoed, confused.

“Or lack of it, anyway.”

Leliana piped up, “I have a few connections in Orzimmar that could provide us a steady line, but it won’t be cheap and it’ll take some time. But I might be able to dig up a few… _less than legitimate_ sources of lyrium, if that would more suit our needs.”

“And it _would_ be more cost-effective,” Josephine added after some quick scribbling arithmetic on a piece of scratch paper.

Cassandra gave a doubtful hum from the corner of the room, her mouth busy with chewing on her thumbnail.

Ylassa nodded in agreement with Cassandra. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I think we need to keep this legitimate. Red and corrupted lyrium is becoming more and more widespread—the more clandestine our supply, the greater the risk of corrupted lyrium working its way in. With all sorts of mages and Templars running around Haven, that’s the last thing we need. Plus, this is the first arrangement of any kind with mage forces, and I don’t want to hand over our detractors any ammunition to throw at us if we don’t _have to._ ”

She sighed as she thought. ““Commander, you’ve got experience with keeping forces stocked with lyrium, so I’d like you to take point on finding a source.”

Cullen blanked. “… I do?” He worked mostly as a guard before he had made his way up the Templar ranks into command—the work with lyrium had never exactly been his forte.

“Do you know how lyrium is made?” Ylassa asked.

“Of course.”

“Then you’re one step further ahead than me. Dwarves make it, right? Perhaps Varric can be of help.”

Cullen had to resist a groan. He didn’t want _any_ assignment that involved asking Varric for help. Nonetheless, he nodded in acknowledgement. “I’ll do my best, Herald.”

“I expect nothing less. We secure the legitimate lines first. Leliana, dig around with your black market contacts in the event we have a shortage or something falls through. But be _careful_ about it _._ We don’t want the Chantry getting wind we have a lyrium supply issue, or that we’re resorting to the criminal underground to get it. Discretion is key, here.”

Leliana nodded. “Of course.”

 “There is the matter of funding,” Josephine added again.

Ylassa splayed her arms out in frustration and addressed the ceiling, “Gods, Josephine, bring in more dignitaries and harass them for money! I can put my ‘friendly and saintly’ face on for an evening.” She paused hesitantly before muttering under her breath, “ _Probably._ ”

“I am sure you will manage,” Josephine answered with all the faith in the world in Ylassa’s ability to hold her tongue and fists in front of snobbish dignitaries.

Cullen certainly had issues with it himself.

“All right…” Ylassa consulted her clipboard one more time. “That _should_ be it…? Yeah, I think that’s it. Anything else that needs to be addressed?” She regarded the room with an arched eyebrow, but they were all silent. “Excellent.” She tossed the clipboard on the War Table with finality, the _clap!_ of wood on wood echoing in the room. “We’ve all got preparations to make, so we had better get to it. Dismissed.”

The room burst into a bustle of fluttering papers and quiet mumbles and before he knew it, everyone but he and Ylassa had vanished. The door slammed shut behind them.

“ _Ugh,”_ Ylassa muttered under her breath, although Cullen wasn’t sure if she was actually speaking to him. “Glad that’s over. I’m not good at running meetings. I’d rather just get to work.”

Cullen couldn’t disagree with her self-assessment more if he tried. “That was…” He searched for the words. _Incredible. Outstanding._ “Quick.” _Beautiful. Perfect._ “And… efficient.”

Ylassa looked up the table, one of her eyebrows ticking upwards. Her eyebrows could get more across than most people’s words. “Don’t sound so surprised.”

“I’m not. I’m merely pleased. But I suppose you learned from the best,” he added with a smug grin.

Her ever-expressive brows furrowed, now. “Leliana?”

“No. Well—yes. But no.”

“Cassandra?”

“No,” he answered, a bit more flatly.

“Surely you don’t mean _Josephine?_ ”

“What? No, I meant me—ah, I see what you’re doing. You’re messing with me again.”

Half-grinning, she straightened out her stack of papers before picking them up and heading to the door. “Had to get one in for the road. Got a lot to do today.” She paused halfway across the room and turned back around, suddenly hesitant. “How are… _things?_ ”

He chuckled quietly—more of a huff than anything. “Things are fine.”

“And how do you feel? _Really?_ ” She leaned into her final word expectantly. _Do not lie to me. We are not martyrs._

“When I visited Solas,” he murmured low, “he gave me something that helped. I’m… tired, but fine.

She shot him a begrudging smirk as she exited the War Room, Cullen hot on her heels. “I was going to say that you _do_ look a lot better.”

“And I feel a lot better. So I’m going to keep working, because there’s too much to do today. Please don’t light my desk on fire.”

Ylassa laughed now, something that sent his heart careening in his chest in a mixture of joy and apprehension. “Just… don’t overdo it. Sometimes when you’re yelling at your troops, you get this vein that pops up in your forehead.” She tapped roughly on the top of her forehead by her hairline.

“I… will keep that in mind.”

As they approached the door the Chantry, they could hear a commotion of voices outside. Cullen’s brow furrowed. “ _What in the world…?”_ he murmured as he pulled open the heavy wooden door.

The scene outside was chaos. A few apostates and rogue mage groups who were not allied with Fiona but had still heard about the mage alliance had been trickling into Haven all week, pledging their support. This had rubbed the few Templars already in the ranks, even Rylen, the wrong way. It seemed things were coming to a head just outside the Chantry door.

“Your people killed the Divine!” one of the Templars bellowed. Cullen recognized him from Kirkwall— _his name was Evans, maybe? Fuck_ , Kirkwall was such a blur by the end that Cullen never really had much of an idea who survived and who didn’t. Once he finished up everything with Hawke, he bolted.

“Like the Void we did!” a mage yelled back, shoving at the Templar. Evans sent a fist into the mage.

“ _Oh shit,_ ” Cullen sighed. He had neither the time nor the energy for this today.

“You take the Templars,” Ylassa declared with the resigned air of a parent whose children were squabbling. “I’ll take the mages.”

“Got it.”

The two of them elbowed their way into the brawl—Ylassa put herself in front of the mage, with Cullen holding Evans back by his shoulders. “ _This stops!”_ He barked out loud enough that most people in the crowd halted. _“Now!”_

Evans looked back at him and protested, “But Knight-Captain—”

“Do _not_ call me that! That is not my title anymore. When we joined the Inquisition, we did not carry our titles with us. We also did not carry our _prior histories_ with us.” Cullen leaned into the words as a way of alluding to Kirkwall. Evans paled slightly.

Ylassa nodded, feeding off of his words. “The Inquisition is here to restore order. We cannot do that if we are standing here squabbling about responsibilities. You’re all here now, and you all have a job to do. Get to work.”

As the crowd dispersed, Chancellor Roderick slipped through. Cullen couldn’t repress a groan of disgust as the man slid up to them, eager to poke at their weak spots and stir the pot. “Restore order…” he mused out loud. “I wonder what sort of order your Inquisition really plans to restore…”

“Preferably the kind of order where you’re not harassing us every five seconds, Chancellor Roderick,” Cullen shot back. “I trust this disturbance of the peace was your doing?”

“If I can ‘disturb the peace’ with a handful of well-placed words,” the Chancellor suggested, “then it’s not much of a peace to begin with.”

“ _Wise words from a man not important enough to die at the Conclave,”_ Cullen heard Ylassa mutter under her breath.

Cullen snickered.

“This is what I mean, Commander,” Chancellor Roderick began. “Someone like her is not meant to be Andraste’s chosen.”

“If what I _think_ you’re saying is what you’re saying, it had better not be. You can criticize the Inquisition all you want, Chancellor, but I draw the line at attacking specific members. _Especially_ due to their race.”

“My goodness, I would _never_ imply that an elf cannot be Andraste’s chosen!” His voice sounded a bit disingenuous. “I bear no ill will towards elves. Certainly, stranger things have happened.” The Chancellor cleared his throat. “I _do_ hold an objection to the idea that _this_ particular elf is anything saintly. The Chantry has done their due diligence, and we must admit, we’re not happy with what we’ve found in your supposed Herald.”

“I’ve never said that I’m the Herald,” Ylassa retorted. She crossed her arms. “ _You_ have all said that I’m the Herald. I’ve denied it every step of the way.”

Chancellor Roderick ignored her, continuing to address Cullen as if she weren’t even there. “Petty thievery. General thuggery. Not particularly well-liked anywhere.”

“Ooh,” Ylassa continued, brushing off the comments like they weighed little on her mind, “I just found the title of my inevitable biography. Listen, my job is to bark orders and close rifts. If you religious types want to add any sort of symbolism to my position, fine, but don’t get pissed if I can’t live up to it. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”

Without so much as a ‘good day’ to either of them, she stomped off towards somewhere else in Haven. Cullen sighed, rubbing at the lower half of his face.

Chancellor Roderick smirked. “She’s a bit touchy.”

“She has a _point_ ,” Cullen shot back, his eyes narrowed in the other man’s direction. “Please don’t forget that you are a guest here, Chancellor. Hand to the Maker, if I catch word of you instigating conflict in the Inquisition again, I will _personally_ escort you out of Haven myself.”

The Chancellor probably _would,_ and frankly, Cullen looked forward to it.

He set off in search of Ylassa and found her quickly. She hadn’t wandered too far— just over by the Quartermaster’s tents to examine requisition orders.

“Don’t listen to him,” Cullen urged as he stepped in line beside her. “One of these days he’s going to mouth off to the wrong person and get his faced caved in. Trust me, if decorum and my fear of the Lady Ambassador weren’t in the way, I’d have already done it.”

Ylassa said nothing and didn’t even look up from her papers, so he tried again.

“You can’t give the Chancellor the satisfaction. He’s looking for a rise out of you—another reason to decry you and the Inquisition as a whole.”

“Do you ever think that…” She trailed off.

“What?”

She shrugged. “Maybe the Chancellor has a point? Maybe I’m in over my head.

“Do you _think_ you’re in over your head?”

“… Sometimes?” There was an upturn in her inflection, as if she was quite unsure herself. “I think I’m just tired.”

“Herald—” he began, but she cut him off.

“ _Please_ don’t,” she begged, closing her eyes for a few seconds. “Not now. I don’t want to be the fucking Herald right now.”

Cullen cleared his throat. “ _Lassa…”_ he corrected, suddenly hating how her name felt in his mouth. “We are all in over our heads here.”

“He practically _admitted_ to starting fights here, and that’s only with a handful of mages and Templars. What’s going to happen when the actual mage forces arrive?”

“I’ll make sure Leliana keeps an eye on him. Him staying in Haven looks good for Chantry-Inquisition relations, but not at the expense of being able to do our work. Why are you—” he cut himself off.

“What?” she asked after a few seconds of silence.

“Why are you letting him get to you so badly? I’ve _never_ known you to care about this sort of thing.”

Ylassa put down her papers as she thought about it, taking in shaky breaths and drumming her fingers on the table. “This Inquisition has become a second chance for _so many people_ to do good in this world. It’s what I love about it!” Her eyes brightened somewhat.

Cullen’s throat caught a bit. Ylassa was talking about him, even if she may not have realized it.

“So if people still can’t get behind me, does that mean I’m… beyond redemption?”

“What?” Cullen was almost incredulous at the question. “No— _Maker,_ no!” He took a step closer so he could clap his hand on her shoulder. “You’re just looked at under a lens because you have a higher position, and because some people claim that you’re a religious icon, but I don’t think you’re beyond redemption at all. If you are, then—then Void, so am I. So are a lot of us.”

The corner of her mouth quirked. “Do you really mean that?”

“Yes,” he breathed.

“And you’re not just saying it to make me feel better?”

“No. Uh… I don’t really do that sort of thing.”

A soft chuckle came out of Ylassa’s nose. Her smile brightened somewhat, but still seemed a bit hesitant. “Well, thank you. For…” she trailed off, shrugged, and doubled down: “Just… thank you. I know we haven’t always gotten along, but… it means quite a bit coming from you.”

“You’re quite welcome.” He cleared his throat and dropped his hand to his side.

This is not how Cullen wanted his day to go.

While the conversation with Solas was illuminating, terrifying, and more helpful than he had anticipated, he had failed miserably at the second half of the plan—to avoid Ylassa at all costs until he could get the whole situation under control.

Then again, anything involving the blasted Herald of Andraste tended to never go the way he expected.

“How are—” he cleared this throat again to resume to business, “—how are the requisitions looking?”

“Oh!” Ylassa exclaimed, suddenly remembering the business at hand. “ _Yes._ ” She looked back at the large stack of papers. “We have a lot of things held up until that new supply line starts coming in, unfortunately. But it looks like everyone will have food in their bellies and a roof over the heads.”

“That’s what’s most important at the end of the day,” Cullen reminded.

“It’ll have to do,” she declared with a resigned sigh. “For _now._ ”

“Val Royeaux wasn’t built in a day.”

Ylassa rolled her eyes. “I’m not trying to build Val Royeaux. I’m trying to protect the people under my care from the elements.”

From across the courtyard, Josephine called out, “ _Herald! Come on, we’re going to be late!”_

“ _Shit,”_ Ylassa muttered, her face scrunched in distaste at her title. “ _I forgot about that._ ” She looked back at Cullen somewhat apologetically. “I have to go—I have a lunch with that noble.”

“Which noble?”

She waved her hand dismissively. “The one who technically owns the Chantry. You know. That one.”

“You don’t even know his _name?_ ” Cullen asked with a quirk in his eyebrow.

“No, and don’t go around acting like you _do,_ because I know you don’t either. So, uh… Wish me luck with that!”

“ _Andraste preserve the Inquisition,”_ he teased.

“Ha, ha,” she laughed sarcastically.

“ _Herald!”_

In a moment of sheer synchronicity, Ylassa and Cullen stuck out their index finger at Josephine at the same time. _One more minute._

“I have to go. And you have work to do.”

“I won’t keep you any longer,” Cullen assured. “Just… know that you’re doing a very good job. Stop being so hard on yourself.”

Ylassa shot him an odd look, but her back subconsciously straightened at the compliment. “… Thank you—okay, I _really_ have to go, I can feel Josephine glaring daggers into the back of my head.”

Cullen momentarily looked over Ylassa’s head and across the courtyard at the petulant Ambassador. He couldn’t recall ever seeing the woman scowl before. “ _Oof_. Yes, it’s bad. Go.”

With a snicker, she spun on her heel and headed across the courtyard. “ _Bye,”_ she called out over her shoulder in a sing-song voice before shoving her hands into her pockets and half-jogging towards the Ambassador.

Cullen let out a horse-like sigh that vibrated his lips as he rubbed the back of his head. He wasn’t sure if it was the Dreaming or just the stress of the day, but he hoped that every interaction with Ylassa wouldn’t make him keep feeling like this. He felt like he was looking over a cliff a very long way down—his stomach filled with nervousness, and he suddenly felt the great desire to lie down on the ground.

_You’re in love with—_ he began to think, but he shut that thought down _immediately._

He needed a nap and a fucking drink. Potentially both.  

He settled for doing his job instead, heading down towards the front gate of Haven to check in on Rylen and the status of the encampments.

The rest of the day passed by blessedly quick. His afternoon was filled with barking orders and examining the preparations he had been assigned to do at the War Meeting. He crossed paths with Ylassa a handful of times, but they were nothing but professional. Checking in on the troops, passing by in the opposite direction while she was chatting with Leliana, silent nods and half-salutes. But each encounter would end, and Cullen would be accosted once again with memories of a pleasant dream that was _anything_ but professional. Fortunately for him, work allowed him to push all the other thoughts out of his head in record time.

He should probably be concerned with the ease in which he could take a thought and lock it away in a trunk in his own head, but he figured he could worry about that another time.

In the evening, he retired to his tent to do some paperwork in peace and quiet. Cassandra came in at around eight and practically dragged him by his ear to the mess hall for dinner. Even as he grumbled to himself while he reluctantly scarfed down his bowl of stew, he was quite grateful for having friends who cared about his own health and wellbeing more than he did. He’d be perfectly content to sit around at his desk and waste away.

The hour was running late when Cullen finally made it back to his tent. The wicks on the candles were low, and Cullen sat back down at his desk before more paperwork would somehow land on his desk and threaten to swallow him whole. He felt like with every form he sighed, two more would replace it the moment he turned his head.

Paperwork was the least favorite part of his day, but it was a necessary evil.

After some amount of time, Cullen was pulled out of his paperwork-induced trance by a masculine voice clearing their throat beyond the flaps of his tent. “Enter,” he called out.

“Commander,” Solas greeted as he parted the front flap to the tent.

“Solas,” Cullen greeted back.

“I was about to embark on my nightly walk to check on the Veil. Perhaps… you’d like to join me?”

It wasn’t a request. Cullen could tell that Solas clearly had something he wished to talk about. Given the nature of his recent conversations with the apostate, it could be about any number of things.

“Of course. Lead the way.”

The walk down the steps towards the front gate was silent, with Solas occasionally stopping to meddle around with things that Cullen couldn’t see. He’d tap his staff on the ground or wave his hands to check for weaknesses. Eventually they passed through the gates, the guards saluting Cullen as they passed. They meandered slowly down the path past Harritt’s forge.

“Here,” the apostate announced suddenly as he stopped in his tracks.

The stop was so sudden that Cullen almost bumped into him. “What?”

“You’re a Templar, you might be familiar with things of this nature. Can you feel it?”

Cullen stilled. He did not interact much with the Veil—that was the mages job. His job was to keep those mages in line. “I’m… a bit rusty.”

Solas sensed his hesitation. “The lyrium is the source of your power, and yet none of you ever seem to question where that power _comes_ from. You are more in tune with the Fade than you think. Close your eyes,” he instructed. “Reach out.”

Cullen decided that he’d humor him. He shut his eyes tightly and willed his mind to reach out…

He could feel the Veil under him as he did so. It was like he was running the fingers of his mind through running water. Suddenly, he felt the flow of energy dip, like a block in that stream of water.

Curious, he attempted it again, this time even moving his own physical hand along with it.

He opened his eyes to find the mage watching him with some interest. “There’s… _something_ off. A fluctuation of some kind. I can feel it, but I can’t really tell you what it is or why it’s there.” _Maker,_ and he was already tired.

“Good.” Solas seemed… _somewhat impressed?_ “It’s an anomaly. A tear. A weakness caused our proximity to the Breach. Not much of a threat now, but left unchecked, it could turn into a hole big enough for something to slip through. And that’s all a Rift _is._ ” The apostate shut his eyes and bowed his head as the lyrium in his staff momentarily glowed. He smiled amicably as he returned to his normal, stiff demeanor. “Shall we continue?”

And they did.

“What did you do? Back there?”

Solas looked back at him, somewhat puzzled by the question. “I fixed the anomaly, Commander.”

“Yes, I get that.” Cullen’s boots crunched in the snow. “But you obviously didn’t close it with a patch and some thread. What did you _do?_ ”

Solas chuckled oddly. “In the grand sense of the Fade, your comparison isn’t entirely inaccurate.”

He huffed, growing rather tired of the mage’s games and riddles. “I’m asking what kind of _spell_ you used.”

“No spell. Not in the traditional sense. But the Fade has energies and with it, properties that are as physical as you or me. And to the experienced hand, they can be manipulated. Energy can blanket over the tear. Energy can be used to tie the edges together. I repaired the Veil with itself.”

Cullen snorted, “So you’re saying that the Veil around our world is little more than a patchwork quilt?”

Solas actually laughed—a stilted, two-second rumble in his chest, but it was there. “You are _exactly_ correct.”

The walk continued, with Solas stopping a handful of times to check on things. He did not have to cast another spell like he did earlier.

“Forgive me for saying this, Solas,” Cullen spoke up after a while, “but I did not realize how much you do for the Veil around Haven. It seems like if it weren’t for you, Haven would be riddled with Rifts.”

“I appreciate the observation, but it is no trouble. A small bit of effort in being proactive now saves a lot of trouble down the line. Besides,” he admitted, “I rather enjoy that I’ve gotten into the habit of long walks twice a day.”

“Still, it’s a lot of ground to cover. You’re doing this all by yourself?”

“There are few in Haven suited for it, although with the incoming mages from Redcliffe, that may change. Even so, you’ve proved that you can detect anomalies through your abilities bestowed upon you from your Order.”

Cullen thought about the exhaustion that seeped into his bones just from the few seconds he had examined the Veil earlier. How with each passing day, his powers waned and drained him more and more. “I… may not be the most reliable assistant.”

“No matter. But if you find yourself walking around, especially outside the gates, and you find something unusual in the Veil, I would be most appreciative if you brought it to my attention.”

“If I stumble on something,” he promised, “you’ll be the first to know.”

“You’re very surprising, Commander.”

“How so?”

“You are not like many Templars I have met.”

“Have you met many?”

“You ask a lot of questions,” Solas explained, avoid Cullen’s own question. “You listen to ideas that are not your own, even if you do not agree with them. You seem genuinely curious about the Fade, and my own work with it.”

“You’re surprised because I’m… _open-minded?_ Solas, I am _not_ my Order. Haven has not seen a single Rift since the Breach’s first appearance. That is a direct result of your efforts, and you have my thanks for it. It’s really that simple.”

Solas hummed for a moment in thought. “I… suppose I should not be so quick to paint everyone with the same brush. I appreciate your open-mindedness. It’s refreshing.”

They reached the edge of what would be considered ‘Haven’. Down the path was a scattering of pine trees that would eventually grow into a full forest. On the other side of it would be the road leading Redcliffe. Both men halted, not wishing to go much further.

“The reason I dragged you out here,” Solas finally began. “I spoke to Yearning.”

Cullen’s eyebrow quirked. “Your… spirit ‘friend’?” he asked in a neutral tone, although his head and stomach were both filled with dread at the memory of the night before.

“Yes. It would seem they’re rather taken with you.”

“Does that happen often?”

“It would depend on your definition of ‘often’. The meaning of ‘often’ varies wildly from people like us to spirits of the Fade.”

“You’re avoiding the question,” Cullen noted.

The mage made no effort to return to it. “Keep in mind, Yearning gave me very little information about what you two discussed when they visited you. They couldn’t have, discretion is… part of who they are.”

“So why did you drag me out here, Solas? Surely you’re not here to suggest I should meet with that demon.”

Solas’ eyebrow quirked. “No. Yearning will visit whether you like it or not. What you have to gain from that visit is entirely up to you.”

“I trust you speak from experience.”

“I do, and with it comes sage advice: do not ever think that you know more than a spirit. Yearning made my life difficult when I was… _younger._ But only because I let them.”

Cullen sighed and rubbed at his face. “I don’t want anything from the Fade anywhere _near_ Haven, Solas. I thought I made that clear.”

Solas set himself on the return trip up the bath back to Haven, with Cullen hot at the mage’s heels. “You did. But spirits have their own wills, Commander.”

“So what do you expect me to do? Negotiate?”

“Precisely,” Solas declared. “Spirits are fickle things, but they are ultimately guided by their own set of laws. Yearning is a spirit of their word. If they so desperately want to speak with you, they’ll agree to whatever terms you set forth.”

“Including leaving Haven alone,” Cullen surmised.

The mage nodded in affirmation.

“And they’d actually do it? Leave Haven alone?”

“They’d have to. Yearning is guided by their sense of honor, first and foremost. They are bound by a promise they make in the same way that we are governed by, say, gravity. To disobey the laws that govern what a spirit is would be to unravel the very fabric of who they are. It would even risk corruption.”

Cullen hesitated. “Why are you helping me? You’d think that you’d _want_ your spirit friends around.”

“I _do,_ but I also understand your hesitation. The mage forces arriving makes things a precarious situation. The danger that fear and inexperience with the Fade brings about can be far more than any real danger it would pose. Someday, common masses will be ready to rub elbows with spirits.” There was a twinkle in his eye even with his grim smile. “Today is not that day.”

“Remember that spirits are fickle,” the mage concluded as they arrived back at the front gates of Haven. “They are prideful. In many ways, they are more ‘human’ than some mortals I’ve met. You can exploit their flaws like you could any other person.”

“Reminds me of Orlesians and their Game,” Cullen remarked.

“On a much more dangerous scale,” Solas agreed. “My walk is not yet done, but this is where I leave you.”

Cullen nodded. “Thank you, Solas.”

“Good night.” Solas turned and continued down the path in the opposite direction. “And good luck.”  

Cullen headed up the steps and watched until the mage disappeared from sight. He let out a long sigh, rubbing at the lower half of his face as he strode past the gate and towards his own tent.

He changed out of his armor, brushed his teeth, and splashed cold water from the basin onto his face. The usual routine—only this time laced with nervousness and dread. He tried to busy himself with paperwork for a bit as a way of procrastinating on the night still to come. Finally, when the wicks on the candles on his desk were low, he retired to his cot.

Cullen worried that sleep would not come for him, and for quite a bit, it didn’t. He stared up into the darkness of his own tent, focusing on his own breathing. Eventually, his eyelids felt so heavy that the allure of closing them was impossible to ignore.

Even as he did so, the nervousness in his stomach would not abate.

_Yearning would come._

_Whether he liked it or not._

 

Yearning visited him again that night while he was dreaming, still disguised as Ylassa. They were in the War Room in the dream, but Cullen didn’t even know why they were there—it was a nice enough place, he supposed, but he couldn’t really recall doing anything other than appearing there.

“ _Maker,_ ” Cullen muttered as the spirit suddenly appeared in the War Room. Now that he at least knew what to expect, he could be on his guard. His lyrium was already drumming its fingers on the inside of his skull, shouting for Cullen to notice something that he was already aware of.

“I think we got off on the wrong foot yesterday, don’t you?” They stuck their hand out. “I’m a Spirit of Yearning, but you can just call me Yearning.”

Cullen stared down at the spirit’s hand but didn’t do much else. It struck him as odd— _well, odder than the whole situation already was—_ that this Fade-version of Ylassa had her down to the finest details. This version of Ylassa had the mark. This version of Ylassa was left-handed.

The _vallaslin_ of this version of Ylassa was accurate down to the tiniest branch, and _Maker knows how much time Cullen spent committing that design to memory_. It set every cell in his body on edge, seeing such a startlingly accurate version of her that, well… wasn’t _her._

“Leave me, demon.”

Yearning crossed their arms and pouted, leaning against a bookshelf. It was much like a petulant child, and a very peculiar thing for Cullen to see from something that looked like Ylassa. “Solas said that you _talked,_ ” they whined.

“Yes, and I told him that I don’t want his friends littering Haven once the mages arrive.”

“Mages don't arrive until tomorrow, Cullen."

“I’m amazed that demons care about little things like semantics.”

Yearning grinned, doing that half-cocked smile that Ylassa always did, which sent a shiver of dread down Cullen’s spine. “I deal with mortals every day, and I’ve done so for _literal_ ages. You all care about little details and semantics, so _I_ have to care about little details and semantics. You don’t want me here once the mages arrive? Fine, but the mages aren’t here yet. Simple.”

Cullen just rolled his eyes.

“I trust Solas inquired about my offer? You hear me out tonight, and I’m gone.” They mimed a _poof!_ with their hands.

Cullen blinked a few times, his mind still trying to adjust to it all. “I just don’t understand how I’m supposed to trust you.”

“Solas vouched for me, didn’t he?”

_Whatever his word might be worth,_ Cullen thought bitterly.

Yearning tossed their head back and laughed so uproariously that for a moment, Cullen worried that he had said something out loud. “Oh, good one!”

“I… I didn’t say anything.”

“ _Sure, you did_.” They tapped their index finger to their lips as if signifying some sort of secret agreement. “Back to the proposition, Cullen. You hear me out, I’m out of Haven. It’ll take… _maybe_ an hour for us to get to the heart of it. After that, you’re free to leave whenever you wish, just say the word. I’ll even throw a good night’s sleep in, just for the hell of it.”

Curiosity got the better of him. “You can do that? Just… throw in a good night’s sleep?” he asked with an air of disbelief.

Yearning shrugged, “Sure. You’re in my domain, now, and time moves differently in the Fade. We can talk for what might feel like five minutes, and I can stretch it out until the morning, and pull you out gently enough so as not to disturb you. Not like last night where I had to pull you out rather suddenly, and I’m sure you felt the after-effects of _that_ this morning… I’ve been told that feels kind of like a hangover. Not like I’d know what that feels like, not having a corporeal form and all.”

“… Should I just pretend that I understood half of the words that you just said?” He internally kicked himself. It was easy to be joking or laid back around Ylassa. _This isn’t Ylassa,_ he had to remind himself. _This is an enemy._

“Oh, no, I suppose not,” they chuckled ruefully. “Sorry, not a lot of people get to, uh… _Peek behind the curtain,_ as it were _._ It’s been a while since I’ve had to explain this to anyone who hasn’t already had a lot of dream-walking experience. Uh…” Yearning clicked their tongue a few times. “Okay, just… stop me if I lose you.”

Yearning marched over to the map on the War Table. There was something… _off_ about the map—lines and words blurred and sharpened and moved across the page as if they were alive. Yearning began, “So… So, you know how certain areas of the Fade where the Veil is thin, often around a real location in Thedas, tend to take on the properties of that location, or the dreams of that locations inhabitants, across all of time and space?”

Cullen blinked. “Y…yes?” He scoured his brain through a decade of Templar studies. It didn’t sound _wrong,_ to be sure.

“Yes, well, the Fade is not _just_ limited to reflections of Thedas environments, or the dreams of their denizens. The Fade is, well, so much _bigger_ than that. It’s _infinite, really!_ ” Yearning’s eyes lit up as they began to talk very animatedly, gesturing all around the map on the War Table without pointing out anything in particular. “There’s this whole infinity stretching beyond the area around the Veil. It’s just pure, raw, unfiltered Fade—it just _is._ And some spirits, as well as some demons, and some _other_ things, have carved out little spaces of that infinity as their domain. You are in Yearning’s domain, my friend,” they proclaimed, as they gestured to the War Room replicated around them. “It exists everywhere and… nowhere.”

“So I’m not… _in Haven_?”

“Well, physically, yes, you’re still tucked away in your cot, sound asleep. Mentally, no, you’re here in my domain with me. That’s the trick with Dreamers, see—for the most part, if a Dreamer pops into the Fade, they tend to be localized to whatever part of the Fade is tethered to where they are. Dream in some ruins? You’re going to wake up in the Fade actualization of those ruins. I’m sure Solas has explained all that to you.”

He had not.

They continued, “The _trick_ you see, is that spirits have a little bit more leeway. Spirits can pop in and out of all sorts of places in the Fade freely. Some places, like the Fade around Thedas where the Veil is thin—” Yearning gestured around the map, “—is free reign. A sort of no-man’s land, as it were. Lots of spirits and demons with no real stake on anything. I can drag Dreamers to and from there, no problem. Same with my own domain. Any spirit or demon could take you to their domain, if they had one.

_“Other_ domains stretching into that raw Fade I mentioned earlier…” they wavered their hand in the area just over the map nebulously. “That’s a little more complicated. Domains are essentially the creations of their creators—they abide by their own individual laws and physics. My realm tends to be a lot like the Fade near the Veil—real people, real objects, regular laws of physics. After all, I want visitors here to be comfortable and, most of the time anyway, _not_ aware that they’re Dreaming. You were just a little more observant than I anticipated.”

Cullen let out a long sigh and rubbed at his face. He was about to find out _very_ quickly whether one could get headaches in the Fade.

Yearning chuckled, “I didn’t think I’d lose you that quick.”

One of his eyes shot open and he regarded the spirit with irritation. “No, you didn’t _lose me_. Circles have extensive libraries, I’m fairly well-read. Just… I’ve never exactly been one for sitting down for some tea and philosophical ruminations about the nature of the Fade, that’s all.”

“No, I get what you’re saying.” They hummed. “Do you want some tea? I can get you some tea.”

Cullen blinked twice. Every minute of conversation with Yearning held more twists and turns than a mountain path, and it was hard to keep up. “… No. The tea isn’t really the issue here.”

“That so?” Yearning shrugged, “Hard to tell with you mortals sometimes. You’re all very fond of tea. Never understood the appeal, it’s just hot leaf water, right—I’m getting distracted, aren’t I?” they exclaimed out of nowhere. “We came here to discuss something else.”

“I don’t suppose you’d like to tell me what it is exactly you’ve dragged me here for?”

“Well… Isn’t obvious?” They gestured at themselves.

It finally clicked. “ _Lassa?_ You’ve dragged me into the Fade twice to talk about _Lassa?_ ”

Shoving their hands in the pocket of their trousers, they rolled their eyes. “What, did you think I came here to talk to you about current state of the Orlesian Civil War? It’s in my _name,_ Cullen. _Year-ning._ ” They spread out the syllables of their name, dancing on their tongue.

“I don’t yearn for the Herald,” he grumbled. He switched into her honorific subconsciously, and he wasn’t even sure why. It’s not like Yearning’s opinion of him _mattered._

“Maybe you do, maybe you don’t.” They hopped on the edge of the table. “I think you yearn for _something_ thought, and I think Ylassa might just be the _current_ manifestation of it.”

“And what exactly is it that I _am_ yearning for, pray tell?”

Yearning grinned—Ylassa’s lopsided smirk assailing his mind. “That’s for me to help you find out.”

“You can’t just _tell me_ what it is? Send me on my merry way?”

“If I did, would you even listen?”

_Fair point._

“So what _are_ you going to do, then?”

“Same thing I’ve done since the moment I came into existence.” Yearning hopped off the table. “I’m going to show you.” They held out their hand for Cullen to take.

He eyed it dubiously.

“Oh, come now, Cullen, it’s not going to bite you.”

Still he stood, motionless. _Conflicted._ Every Templar sense in his body was screaming at him to at least not _stand there._ He’d walked right into a lion’s den. What was he _thinking?_

And even still, Ylassa’s visage stood before him. Brown eyes wide and face smooth and unworried, arm outstretched as if asking him to dance. It terrified him even more how it set part of him at ease.

_This is fake,_ he repeated over and over. _This is not real._

“I thought that was our deal,” they reminded. “You hear me out, I leave your precious little Inquisition alone. And maybe along the way, you’ll find out that not all spirits are terrible.”

Cullen regarded the hand extended to him for a few more moments. “I have terms.”

“Negotiating with spirits…” Yearning teased, putting their hand down. “Look who’s being a naughty Templar.” They waggled their eyebrows suggestively, which made Cullen instinctively scoff with disgust. That just made them grin.

Cullen crossed his arms. “I’m doing this for the Inquisition. This is not for me, and this is certainly not for _you._ And I know that if I put forth terms that you agree to, you have to abide by them. _”_

Now it was Yearning’s turn to scoff with disgust. “Ugh, _Solas…_ ” they whined. “Fine. What are they?”

He nodded. “Once I go with you… wherever it is you want me to go, we consider my end of the bargain filled. I’ve ‘heard you out’, as you say. Which means once I say that I am done, I’m _done._ You let me go, and you leave Haven alone.”

Yearning pondered it, a bit unhappy with the terms Cullen had just put forth. Nonetheless, they acquiesced with a deep sigh. “All right. Fine.”

“And I don’t want you looking like… _her._ The Herald. Talking about her while you’re wearing her skin… It’s disgusting. And a little disconcerting.”

“I’m not _wearing her skin_ ,” Yearning corrected, their nose scrunching in distaste at such imagery. “I just took a form that visually looked like her, is all. Physical properties of the Fade are a little different. I don’t really have a corporeal form, and that _weirds_ people out, so I tend to look like… people. Usually friendly or familiar faces.”

“I don’t care _what it is_ or _why you do it_ ,” Cullen growled. “Just stop it.”

“Okay, okay,” Yearning grumbled, a bit put out. “Let me think—okay, I have something.” They snapped their fingers and…

“No. _No_.”

“Oh, _come now,_ ” the figure of Mia smiled up at him. Long blonde hair and freckles, and a slight gap in her front teeth... Somehow, the visage of Mia had not changed a wink since he last saw her.

“This is _somehow worse!”_ Cullen protested.

Yearning pouted again. “I think it’s a rather good one. Mia might be a bit overbearing, but she strikes me as the kind of person you’d want talk about things like this with. Well…” They trailed off. “She would be, if you were the kind of person who actually talked about these sorts of things, which you’re not. Which is why I'm here.”

Cullen buried his head in his hands for a moment. He _definitely_ had a headache. “Fine. _Fine._ ”

“And I’ll throw in that good night’s sleep I promised earlier.” Yearning stuck their hand out. “Do we have a deal?”

_Entering a pact with a demon… Andraste preserve him._

_For the Inquisition, then._

He shook the spirit’s hand, quickly dropping it as soon as he could. “Deal.”

Yearning clapped their hands together once in excitement. “Excellent! Come on then, no time to waste!”

“I thought time worked differently in here,” Cullen pointed out. “That we had all the time you need.”

“Yes, it does. And _yes,_ we do. I’m just _boooooooooooored._ ” They stepped behind Cullen and began to push on his lower back with all of their might— _which was a surprising amount,_ Cullen noted—and guided him towards the door out of the War Room. They flung the large wooden door open and pushed Cullen through.

Just when Cullen was about to expect something bad, or an imminent demise, he stumbled into the Singing Maiden. The din of laughter, music, and the clinking of drinks assaulted his ears at once. He looked back toward the open door he had just stumbled through, but all that he could see out the door was darkness.

“Come on,” Yearning urged gently, pushing their way through the throng of people. “Don’t worry about bumping into them, they can’t really see or hear us.”

Cullen gulped, shuddered, and then followed the spirits footsteps. He bumped into someone and instinctually began to apologize, but the person in question didn’t even look in his direction. With some hesitation, he waved his hand in front of the man’s face. Not even a blink of recognition.

“ _Cullen,”_ Yearning chastised good-naturedly, “stop playing around!”

When Cullen turned around to look at the spirit, they were already seated—no, _lounging_ —at a table in the corner. They grinned and slapped their hands on the table. “Shall we begin?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love the idea of Solas being a messy scholar. He's not some uptight, anal-retentive scholar--he's Charlie Kelly from It's Always Sunny standing in front of his conspiracy board and yelling about Pepe Silvia.
> 
> ($15 to the first person who draws/photoshops that, I'm dead serious)
> 
> I hope you guys enjoy Fade Shit, and I hope Yearning is a character you guys have fallen in love with as much as I have. They're super great, and the next chapter is pretty much ALL Fade shit so I'm sorry if you don't like them. (No I'm not.)
> 
> Anyway uhhhhhhhhhhhhhh... Thanks! Glad to be back at it!


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